


Protectobot Beginnings-verse Snippets

by playswithworms



Series: Protectobot Beginnings [34]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Mech Preg, Mpreg, Other, Snippets, Sparklings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 24,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playswithworms/pseuds/playswithworms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Segments of longer story arcs I'm still working on, side stories, little moments, scenes that don't fit anywhere yet, along with some crack and alternate versions and assorted oddments.   These leap all over in time and space, so anything can happen!  And when it does happen, snuggles are often involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Naptime

**Author's Note:**

> I posted Project Reset Snippets, so to be fair I figured I'd post Protectobot Beginnings ones over here, too. A nice fresh batch today, and I might post some older ones that haven't been incorporated into longer fics from my LJ as the spirit moves me :) Also posting each one as a chapter, because that's how I started doing it, and I like to stay consistent unless I decide I'd rather be inconsistent.

  
_Inferno, time to bring Hot Spot back,_  Ratchet commed.  
  
 _Aw, do I have to? This guy’s great!_  
  
 _I’m sure he is, but he’s still a sparkling; he needs more recharge than you do, and Hot Spot doesn’t know when to quit. He’ll run himself into stasis if we let him. Also, his brothers miss him._    
  
“Actually we’re ok, Ratchet,” First Aid called from the other side of the medbay, where he and Groove were repairing a damaged medical berth. “And Hot Spot’s having a really good time.”   
  
“Not helping, youngster,” Ratchet growled, glaring at the pair sternly. “Recharge for the lot of you, as soon as Hot Spot gets back.”  
  
“But, Ratchet…  
  
“Ehp ehp! No arguments! You may be official Autobots now, but you are to stick to your scheduled recharge cycles unless I say otherwise. I’m not going to stand by and let new engines get overworked.”  
  
The two exchanged glances and looked at their half-finished project. Sensing they were not yet entirely in compliance, Ratchet narrowed his optics and pulled out his trump card. “Optimus backs me up on this. Direct orders.”  
  
“Yes, Ratchet,” they sighed together.  
  
“How long until we don’t have to have recharge naps anymore?” Groove whispered, as they turned back to welding and rewiring the next damaged section, attempting to get as much done as possible before Ratchet pulled the plug.   
  
“We’re sparklings until we turn eleven vorns, at least,” First Aid whispered back, “so probably not until then.”  
  
“Aw, scrap,” Groove said, very quietly, with a sparkfelt sigh and a cautious glance towards Ratchet at the other end of the medbay. First Aid nodded in glum agreement.  
  
First Aid leaned over and gave his brother a reassuring nudge after a few kliks, spirits rallying quickly. “Don’t worry,” First Aid said. “We’ll just have to get twice as much done while we’re awake, that’s the only thing for it.” 


	2. Sideswipe needs hugs

“Hey,” Sideswipe said, as First Aid started cleaning the gouge marks on his helm, his hands moving with quiet and steady confidence, no different now than they were in the middle of a raging battle. “Sorry. Sorry if we upset you. And made you come all the way out here. It was stupid.”  
  
“It’s ok, Sideswipe, I’ll live,” First Aid patted him on the shoulder. “This is what I’m here for, you know. I was built for this, repairing. Even stupid injuries,” First Aid twinked his visor at him, and from the shape of his optics Sideswipe thought he might be smiling, although his face mask was up so he couldn’t be sure. “It makes me happy to do it. Are you feeling better now? Sunstreaker said you were upset…”  
  
Sideswipe ducked his head evasively. To his horror he felt a wave of emotion rising through him again--he couldn’t push it down--making his vocalizer catch and his intakes falter. Slag, what was wrong with him? But he couldn’t stop the spark-breaking image of that lost, laughing Sunstreaker, lost Sideswipe, whoever he had been. First Aid made a sad sympathetic noise, and at the sound Sideswipe curled up tighter and began sobbing in earnest. He felt arms around him, First Aid, and he let himself uncurl and pressed his helm into the medic’s shoulder as he wept. First Aid’s arms weren’t quite long enough to go all the way around him, but he felt one gently rubbing on the edge of his back. In circles, of course. Sideswipe gave a choked laugh. Sunstreaker was rubbing hesitantly on the other side of his back.  
  
//I’ve gone insane, bro. It’s official// he sent.  
  
//Welcome to the club// Sunstreaker thought back at him, his mental tone wry, worried, but…tender, Sideswipe would have said, except that Sunstreaker was never tender, no more than he ever laughed. He’d been protecting Sideswipe from the dark places, keeping him sane, Sideswipe realized now. At what cost, Sideswipe didn’t know. He’d been hiding things from him, and still was. Sideswipe wanted to be angry at him for it, but he was too tired to summon the energy, and a little afraid, remembering what he had done earlier.


	3. Aerialbots get upgrades

“Guess what, Aid, we’re spaceships now!” Fireflight said, picking First Aid up for a hug and twirling him around.   
  
“Spaceships?” First Aid asked, laughing.  
  
“Well, interstellar flight capable, at least,” Skydive clarified. “Wheeljack found a way to solve the heat dispersal issue without interfering with our atmospheric flight specs.”   
  
“So now next time you go gallivanting off on the Ark we can come too and keep and optic on you,” Air Raid said, grinning and rubbing Aid’s helm fondly.   
  
“Yeah, better us than those crazy twins,” Slingshot muttered.   
  
Silverbolt traded places with Fireflight for his chance to hug First Aid. “As long as we can get off the ship for a flight now and then, that should keep us from getting into too much trouble.”   
  
First Aid looked up at the big jet, taking in his smiling face, something about the way there was a new confidence there, an old hurt soothed, and maybe a hint from the Aerialbot gestalt channel that sometimes tried to link him in…First Aid hugged Silverbolt back tightly. “You’re not afraid when you fly in space, are you,” he said softly. “Oh Silverbolt, I’m so glad!” 


	4. First Aid completely misses the diagnosis

First Aid entered the last of the results of everyone’s scans and check ups with a weary but satisfied sigh. Finally! All the records were up to date; he hated getting behind on maintenance checks of the inhabitants of the Ark, but as the only medic on the ship right now it was difficult to keep up. His brothers helped all they could with routine tests and scans, but when it came to the health of the crew he liked to double check everything personally.   
  
A small alert pinged him from the records file. Whoops, everything up to date except for one mech: himself. Normally another medic would do his vornly check up, but in a pinch he could do one on himself. First Aid drew a small energon sample from himself, tested his pressure and reflexes and processor function, optics, audials, check and check. His systems all registered mildly stressed but perfectly functional, a little low on certain metals--he’d been generating a lot of spare parts for the crew lately, time to up his intake of solids--old injuries to his electrical system and optical processing center stable for now...the scanner bleeped plaintively over his spark readouts.   
  
“Yes, yes, I know,” First Aid said, patting it reassuringly. Scanners never knew what to make of his spark pattern - the odd fluctuations had stabilized somewhat since being reunited with his brothers, but they still weren’t anything approaching “normal,” and it tended to make scanners nervous. This was certainly strange, though. First Aid frowned at the readout and then turned a concerned gaze to the scanner.   
  
“Oh, you poor thing!” First Aid muttered, prying off the panel and using his own integrated scanners to search for signs of damage or overheating. The scan had shown a faint doubled spark readout--like a spark echo--and First Aid recognized the spectrum immediately as Bumblebee’s. The last time this particular scanner would have scanned Bumblebee’s spark had been over twenty vorns ago, however; the poor scanner was obviously glitched, probably from so much use in the last vorn. He couldn’t find anything wrong, and recalibrating and restarting the scanner didn’t seem to help. First Aid finally powered it down.   
  
“There you go,” he told it, patting the scanner fondly as he folded it back into its niche in the ceiling. “Have a nice long rest; we can use my scanners and the backup ones for now, so don’t you worry about a thing.”   
  
Alarms suddenly sounded, lighting up the medbay. The Ark was under attack, again. First Aid quickly set about preparing the medbay in the event of casualties, sending a quick prayer to Primus as he did so that no one would need a deep resonance spark scan.


	5. Roller's not the baby daddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non graphic mentions of mech preg in this one.

“Wait, so you’re saying  _Roller_  got First Aid pregnant?” Sideswipe asked incredulously.   
  
Roller, who had been playing peek-a-boo with Little Bee over First Aid’s shoulder, squawked indignantly. Little Bee scurried back under First Aid’s chin and hid again, and First Aid cupped a hand around him reassuringly.  
  
“Primus grant me patience,” Ratchet said, rolling his optics. “No, Sideswipe, what I said was First Aid downloaded a _program_  from Roller, a spark-budding program that made it possible for him to internally construct Little Bee.”   
  
Roller giggled and waved his fingers menacingly at Sideswipe.  
  
“Gah! Baby cooties!” Sideswipe said, holding his hands up and backing away in pretend horror, with a wink for Little Bee, who was peering at him in wonder from between First Aid’s fingers.


	6. Adopting First Aid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posting some older P-bot snippets not otherwise published in other fics.

“You know we’d adopt you in a sparkbeat, right?”

First Aid tilted his head, as if considering. “Hmmm, I’ve always thought Superion could use a tail,” he said.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a nice helmet, myself,” Silverbolt said, smiling down at him.


	7. Even Unicron cannot escape

“Unicron. Chaos-bringer, dark god, eater of planets.”

  
“Yes, that’s right.”

  
“And you  _fixed_  him?”

  
“….yes?”

  
“Aid…” Blades buried his face in his hands.

  
“Don’t worry, Blades,” First Aid patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “I won’t let him eat you.”


	8. A Protectobot Halloween, Take Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posting some of the results of NaNoWriMo - instead of word count my goal was to write a new snippet a day, at which I (mostly) succeeded! As usual, these are all over the place in space and time.

“Wooooo.”  
  
“Again, but make it spookier,” Blades coached. “Try a little louder, and wave your arms.”  
  
First Aid’s helm tilted at him in worried fashion, his visor visible as a glowing blue band through the layers of stitched-together sheets. “What if I’m  _too_  scary, though, Blades. I don’t want to  _really_  scare anyone.”  
  
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that,” Blades chuckled. First Aid dressed up as a giant ghost tended to be more huggable than horrifying.   
  
“Ok. If you say so,” First Aid said doubtfully, drawing a determined vent of air through his intakes. “WhooOOOoo,” he said firmly, waving his hands this time. Blades stifled a giggle; Aid looked like he was patting invisible mini-bots on the helm.   
  
First Aid huffed, able to feel Blades’ amusement quite clearly through the gestalt bond, and put his hands on his hips. “Maybe I should just hand out candy again; I don’t think I’m really cut out for this.”   
  
“No no,” Blades said hastily, remembering what had happened  _last_  time First Aid had had direct contact with trick-or-treaters, many of them in costumes portraying horrifying injuries and mutilated or rotting body parts. “You’re doing great, just exactly scary enough.”   
  
“I am, hm?” First Aid’s voice was sceptical, but Blades felt his warm amusement. Aid raised his arms again and made grabbing motions at Blades, clumping towards him. “WHOOOoooooOOO.”  
  
Blades widened his optics and backed away (but not very fast). “Oh no! I’ve...I’ve created a monster!”   
  
First Aid rather ruined any illusion of monstrosity by giggling as he nabbed Blades by the rotors when the helo turned and pretended to run away. Hot Spot, walking up on them as they tumbled around on the ground, didn’t know what they were laughing about, but joined the wrestle-cuddle pile anyway (they eventually had to call Groove and Streetwise for backup to get them untangled from First Aid’s ghost costume).


	9. First Aid meets Jazz

Jazz reset his visor frantically, his sensors buzzing with feedback and all of his systems sending him error messages and glitching badly. He’d been shouting something, he realized, but he couldn’t remember what or why he’d been yelling, and he was holding a circuit disrupter to someone’s throat. Someone who was talking to him a low gentle voice. Someone with a calm, soothing energy field, who...slag! who couldn’t be much more than a vorn or two old! A sparkling. He’d been threatening a  _sparkling_. Jazz deactivated the circuit disrupter and let his arm fall painfully back to the...berth?   
  
The voice murmured at him approvingly, “There you go, that’s better. You’re safe here, just lie still.” A warm hand pressed carefully but reassuringly on his shoulder. “You can keep your weapon if it makes you feel better, but...well, it would be nice if you could not try to use it on me for awhile so I can repair you a little faster. You’re badly damaged, and you’ve picked up a nasty virus of some sort, but you’re going to be just fine. I won’t touch your firewalls, but if you give me diagnostic access I can see if I can help you feel better?” The last part was said with a note of earnest hope. Jazz forced his visor online again long enough to get a general image of the mech and his surroundings. White with red markings and Autobot insignia, blue visor, adorable as all get out. Medbay. He was in Rachet’s medbay. He must have made it out and close enough to base to get picked up. Who the Pit was the kid, though?   
  
“Ya always this polite to Decepticons?” Jazz’s vocalizer felt like rusted slag, but he could feel his systems gearing down and relaxing as it finally began to sink in. He was home. It took an effort, but he managed to accept the access request to his systems, and a few kliks later at least half of the error messages winked out. Jazz sighed in relief as much of the sensor feedback dissipated as well.   
  
“I...suppose I am, yes. I could try to be harsher if it would make you feel more at home. I understand Decepticon medics are a little more, um...not polite?” More error messages disappeared and the ache in his processor went from agonizing to quite bearable. Kid seemed to know what he was doing. One of Wheeljack’s new top secret creations, that’s who this had to be. Jazz chuckled to himself as he finally felt the world fall into place.   
  
“You could say that. Nah, that’s all right, kid. You’re doin’ great just as ya are.”   
  
“Oh good!” The youngster sounded deeply relieved. “I don’t think I’d be very good at harsh.” Jazz chuckled out loud this time.


	10. Roller's rollin'

“Ok, little guy, let’s see how this suits you,” Wheeljack said, transferring the alt mode specifications to Roller, smiling as he remembered the tiny, fragile but stubborn spark of life he’d once been. At one vorn old, Roller was now a sturdy little mech about as tall as Wheeljack’s knee, able to maintain his own firewalls and anti-virus upgrades with only occasional boosters from First Aid or Ratchet’s systems. His transformation programs also seemed to be fully mature, and Ratchet had agreed that even though much about Roller’s development was still unknown, he should be safe to try out an alt mode. Worst case scenario he simply wouldn’t be able to transform.   
  
Roller’s optics flickered and his face bore a look of deep concentration as he assimilated and processed the data for several kliks, then he blinked and chirped up at First Aid.   
  
“I’m not sure,” First Aid answered. “You just have to sort of...fold up. Once you get one part started I think everything else kind of happens automatically. I usually start with my legs, like this.” First Aid backed up a little and transformed into ambulance mode, and then back again, Roller watching closely.   
  
Roller took a few unsteady steps and tried lifting one leg, then the other, buzzing a little in frustration when nothing happened.   
  
“Aid, you were built with your alt mode already scanned in. It might be easier for Roller to do that first, and then transform, instead of trying to do both things at once,” Ratchet advised. “See if you can trigger--ah, nevermind! You’ve got it, good job.”   
  
Roller wobbled a little but kept his balance as his outer armor shifted and reshaped itself, and sets of wheels formed at his wrists, shoulders, and knees. He beeped in delight, waving his modified arms up at Wheeljack.   
  
“Lookin’ good, kiddo! You like it?”   
  
A stream of happy whistles and beeps was the response, and Wheeljack’s vocal indicators flashed a merry pink in return.  
  
“Now that you’ve got all your parts, try transforming, see how it goes this time.”   
  
Roller squinched up his faceplates in concentration again, then let out a surprised squawk as he suddenly collapsed and folded into his alt mode, a miniature six-wheeled utility vehicle.   
  
“You did it!” First Aid clapped and cheered, while Roller let out more excited beeps, bouncing on his new tires. Wheeljack high-fived Ratchet, who rolled his optics but couldn’t help the big grin on his faceplates. He had to admit, Roller’s little alt mode was ridiculously adorable.   
  
“Now, before you do anything, find your brakes,” Wheeljack instructed. “You got ‘em?”   
  
Roller beeped an assent.   
  
“Try going forward slowly, then stop.”   
  
Roller rolled forward, but didn’t bother stopping. He giggled as he bumped into First Aid’s foot, then backed up and did the same to Wheeljack and Ratchet, before zipping off through the medbay, weaving around the berths and equipment.   
  
“I think he’s got it!” Wheeljack said. Roller sent him a series of happy little glyphs. “Aw, you’re very welcome, kiddo. I’m glad you like it.”   
  
Roller finally stopped in front of First Aid, chirping at him hopefully. First Aid gave an inquiring glance at Ratchet, who made grumpy shooing motions at them, although he was smiling. “Go on, go ahead. Go show Optimus and stop careening around my medbay.”   
  
“Bet you can’t catch me!” First Aid said, sprinting towards the corridor. Roller gave a squeal and peeled out after him.   
  
Wheeljack laughed. “Hold on to your diodes, everyone. Roller’s got wheels.”   
  
“Look out, world,” Ratchet agreed, nodding. 


	11. First Aid needs to eat a tractor

Blades couldn’t control the alarm that surged through him as he picked his brother up for transport back to base. First Aid weighed only half of what he should! How much of himself had he given to repairs and transfusions this time? 

//I’m ok, Blades// First Aid flooded the bond with weary reassurance. 

//Like slag you are// Blades sent. //There’s nothing left to you!// 

//All the important parts are still here, don’t worry// First Aid thought at him with a bit of fond amusement. Blades wasn’t in a mood to be amused, though, not until he could verify that First Aid hadn’t given away his last fuel pump or something equally important. There was very little he wouldn’t do to save a patient.

//I’m gonna have Ratchet double check that. And then you’re going to refuel, restock yourself, and recharge, in that order//

//Yes, Dr. Blades// Blades could feel First Aid’s smile all the way to his spark. He growled his engine a little and hugged his brother closer as they flew.


	12. Streetwise gets his leg repaired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after the events in "Shield."

Ratchet had expected a cluster of anxious gestaltmates outside the medbay as he began the surgery to repair Streetwise’s broken leg strut, but he hadn’t really expected NINE anxious gestaltmates. Although to be fair, the Protectobots had been more curious and interested than anxious, and First Aid in particular had been disappointed not to be allowed to help with the surgery. Ratchet got the feeling, given the budding medic’s track record so far, that First Aid would have been fine and not panicked or overreacted to the sight of his offline brother, but in the end he decided against it for the sake of First Aid’s recovery from his own injuries. The surgery was more involved than usual for a strut repair due to the specialized construction related to Streetwise’s function in their gestalt form, and Ratchet really didn’t want Aid on his feet for that long.   
  
He made a final adjustment, ran one last calibration, nodding in satisfaction at the results. Ratchet closed up Streetwise’s leg armor and triggered the sequence to bring him back online. Blue optics lit quickly, blinking up at him.  
  
“Ratchet?”  
  
“Repairs are all done, Streetwise. You did great.”  
  
“Done?” Streetwise craned his neck a little, looking down at his leg, now missing its brace. “Wow, that was fast!”  
  
“Fast from your point of view, maybe,” Ratchet chuckled. “That took me nearly two joors.”   
  
“Thanks, Ratchet,” Streetwise said. Ratchet put a cautionary hand on his chestplates as the sparkling sat up with his customary lack of ‘staying still in one place’ skills, even after major surgery. Ratchet was pleased to see that he had regained much of his usual energy, and along with the rest of his brothers seemed well on his way to recovery. Even First Aid was doing much better than he could have hoped, and although the long-term effects of cannon disrupter blasts, especially at such close range, could be unpredictable...well, so far so good.   
  
“No weight on that leg just yet, not until everything’s finished annealing. You sit here and I’ll let the rest of the miscreants in.”   
  
“Miscreants?” Streetwise repeated, laughing and tilting his helm. “That sounds like a Perceptor word.”   
  
Ratchet opened the medbay doors to the waiting mechs outside. The Protectobots, of course, had known the klik Streetwise had come back online and were waiting eagerly, along with all five Aerialbots.   
  
“Is he ok?” Air Raid preempted Hot Spot to ask. “How did everything go?”   
  
“Streetwise is fine, his leg should be good as ever once the repairs settle, and yes, you can come see him as long as there is  _no wrestling around_  and  _no one touches anything._ " Ratchet gave them all (especially the Aerialbots) his best Ratchet-glare.   
  
“Streetwise!” Not particularly subdued by his warning, the whole lot of them tromped in, followed by the usual hugging and reassurances required for the reunion of a gestalt member, along with mild arguing over who got to carry Streetwise around for the remaining joor or so until he could put full weight on his leg. Ratchet sent First Aid a detailed file of the strut repairs and the sparkling gave him a happy smile.   
  
“All right, all right!” Ratchet raised his voice over the clamor, and took Fireflight by the wing before he could get tangled in jumper cables again. “All of you lot, out of here, and take this one with you. Streetwise, your leg might be a little sore once the neural block wears off, but it shouldn’t be painful to walk on. If anything feels off, let me know right away, and I want you and your brothers back here in two shifts so I can clear you for duty.”   
  
Hot Spot had pulled rank for the privilege of carrying Streetwise first, but paused with his brother halfway slung on his back.   
  
“Clear for duty...you mean, we can finally help fix the base!?”   
  
“ _Light_  duty only for you, young mech,” Ratchet emphasized, tapping First Aid on the shoulder, “but yes, you’ll all be able to help.”  
  
“Whee hoo!” Streetwise cheered, and Hot Spot jiggled him the rest of the way onto his back, a big smile breaking across his face.  
  
“Oh, yeah. Great.” Slingshot rolled his optics.   
  
“Less work for us,” Silverbolt reminded him, giving Ratchet a grin and steering his brothers towards the door.   
  
The Protectobots were already excitedly making plans as they left, something about relocating entire corridors, improving connectivity, and redesigning layouts. Ratchet, listening to them, raised an optic ridge. Just what was he about to unleash? 


	13. Wheeljack gets a new project

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aerialbot beginningsverse, way back before the Protectobots were even a glimmer in Wheeljack's optics.

“Jazz…” Wheeljack looked down at the box and then up at Jazz again, completely speechless. When Jazz said he had an interesting package for transport this was  _not_  what he’d expected, not in a million vorns. 

“So,” Jazz said, grinning. “Can ya save them?” 

Wheeljack gaped at him a moment longer and then looked back down in the box. Five sparks pulsed dimmly in a stasis chamber, glommed so closely together it was hard to see the separation between them. 

“What...where?” Wheeljack waved a hand vaguely. Jazz’s expression grew grim. 

“One of Shockwave’s labs. Right before I blew it up. Who knows how long they’d been there, though. These are newsparks, Wheeljack. I think...I think he was going to try to turn them into another gestalt.”

“Primus,” Wheeljack said, appalled, and Jazz nodded. Shockwave’s lab was no place for a living spark of any sort, let alone five newsparks. The results of his other experiments in gestalt formation had been mechanisms twisted and glitched and in some cases nearly insane. And often devastating to Autobot forces, on the occasions they managed to assume combined forms.

“I can build them frames, Jazz, if we can find the supplies, but...what on Primus would we do with them? They’d be sparklings in the middle of a war!” 

“What’s the alternative? Send ‘em back to ol’ Shocky’s tender mercies? Keep them in stasis until they flicker out?” 

“They’re already spark-linked,” Wheeljack said unhappily. “I don’t know much about gestalt theory, but I don’t think there’s anyway to reverse it. We could end up with five insane sparklings on our hands.” 

Jazz sighed, looking down at the quietly gleaming sparklets. “I couldn’t leave them, Wheeljack. Just...just take them to Prime, see what he says. That’s all I ask.”

Wheeljack, cradling the box in his arms, was seized with a sudden determination. They deserved a chance. “I’ll take them,” he said.


	14. Wheeljack's not too sure about Aid's new friends

“Aid!” Fireflight yelled, as the little white-and-red medic exited the Ark. He was mobbed by the entire crew of Aerialbots until an engineer waded in and claimed him for his own.   
  
“Let me get a look at you,” Wheeljack said, holding him at arms length and examining First Aid closely.   
  
“I’m fine, Wheeljack,” First Aid smiled up at him. “All fixed up now. Mostly.”   
  
“I guess you look all right,” Wheeljack admitted. Ratchet had glossed over the extent of his injuries, but Wheeljack could extrapolate enough from his description to make his spark pulse cold. To Pit with two orn missions that turned into two _vorn_  ones, anyway. Next time Wheeljack was going, too. “Primus, kiddo, it’s so good to see you again.” Wheeljack hugged him tightly, while Ratchet, making his own exit from the Ark, smiled and the Aerialbots dragged him into their cluster as well. “I’m not letting you out of my scan range again anytime soon.”   
  
Air Raid grabbed him, then, and whirled him around while First Aid laughed. Wheeljack looked worried, but Ratchet edged over to him.  
  
“It will do him no harm, Wheeljack. He’s still got some energon processing glitches, and I’m keeping his electrical system on dampeners to head off any short outs, but other than that…he’s doing as well as he ever is, considering.”   
  
Wheeljack nodded, not taking his optics off First Aid as he was hugged and joyfully pummeled by the Aerialbots.   
  
“He’s laughing,” Wheeljack said, a note of surprised wonder in his voice. “He doesn't have his facemask up.”   
  
“The trip was good for him. He found some new friends.”   
  
Wheeljack, reassured by Aid’s continued laughter that he wasn’t going to be deactivated by the enthusiasm of his older brothers, turned to look at Ratchet in curiosity. “Oh really?”   
  
“Remember those frontliner twins?”   
  
“Ratch…” Wheeljack’s expression was somewhere between stunned and horrified.  
  
“Damndest thing I’ve ever seen. Those two were as broken-sparked as Aid, is my guess. I think he sensed it in them.”


	15. Party-planner Ratchet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two short snippets tonight!

He hadn’t seen Ratchet like this for a long time, Silverbolt thought with a smile. Not since he and his brothers had been sparklings. The medic was in his element, putting up Wheeljack’s decorations, consulting with Jazz on music and Hoist on refreshments, making sure everyone knew what to do to keep the Protectobots in the dark until the last minute (Silverbolt was fairly certain this was a futile attempt where Streetwise was concerned, but if he or the rest of the Protectobots had figured it out they were politely feigning ignorance.) Their first vorn anniversary had been overlooked in the midst of battles and one crisis after another, but Wheeljack and Ratchet had made it their mission to make sure the same thing didn’t happen to their second.


	16. P-bots are actually adrenaline junkies

Skydive made sure to fly straight and steady as he carried Groove. Grounders sometimes panicked in the air, especially if it was their first time, and Groove was being very quiet in his hold. Skydive couldn’t tell if he was frozen in terror or enjoying the view or if he had just gotten bored and fallen into recharge.   
  
 _You doing ok?_  he finally commed.   
  
 _Yep!_  was Groove’s cheerful reply.  _This is awesome. Do...do you think you could go higher?_  
  
 _Of course I can,_  Skydive said, pulling into a steep climb.  _And I can also do...this!_  He added several barrel rolls and loop de loops for good measure, and Skydive laughed as Groove whooped in delight.


	17. Playing doctor

“Oh no, my leg fell off!”  
  
Wheeljack paused and wheeled back around in the corridor, heading back towards the open door to the Protectobots’ quarters. What on Cybertron were they doing in there? Wheeljack tried not to be unduly concerned. He was fairly certain all their legs were firmly attached; after all, he’d done most of the construction himself. Still, even with only a few orns of existence under their plating this bunch had already proven it didn’t do to underestimate them.  
  
When he peeked cautiously around the door, Streetwise was hopping gleefully around on one leg. The other one, Wheeljack was relieved to see, was still attached and undamaged, just lifted up slightly so Streetwise could hop.   
  
“You have to lie down,” Hot Spot told him. “First Aid can’t repair you if you keep moving.”   
  
“One more time around?” Streetwise said pleadingly. Hot Spot looked over at First Aid, who thought a moment.  
  
“As long as you weren’t leaking you’d probably be ok,” First Aid said. “Are you leaking?”   
  
“Nope!” Streetwise said cheerfully, proceeding to hop another complete circuit of their quarters before dropping down in front of First Aid and stretching out on the floor, grinning up at his brother. “Ok, doc, fix me up!”  
  
Blades and Hot Spot and Groove peered over First Aid’s shoulders, watching with interest as their brother projected a schematic of standard hip articulation and anatomy and began talking through the steps needed for a simple leg reattachment.   
  
 _Ratch, you gotta see this,_  Wheeljack commed. A few kliks later Ratchet appeared in the corridor, giving him a puzzled look. Wheeljack waved him to the other side of the door, holding up his other hand to his facemask to indicate silence. The medic watched as First Aid continued his “treatment,” raising an optic ridge and moving forward slightly as if to intervene when Aid started carefully removing Streetwise’s upper leg armor; he subsided when it became apparent that the sparkling wasn’t going to attempt anything more than examining the structures underneath.   
  
 _If I wasn’t sure before, I’m convinced now,_  Ratchet commed, giving Wheeljack a wry smile.  _The medical programming definitely took._  
  
 _No doubt about it!_  Wheeljack sent back, vocal indicators flashing with amusement as First Aid declared Streetwise ‘fully repaired’ and Groove began flailing and staggering around with a ‘fuel pump malfunction,’ to First Aid’s manifest delight. 


	18. Sideswipe checks on Bumblebee in the medbay

“Hey, Bee, how ya doin’?” Sideswipe said, trying not to wince. The poor scout still looked like slag, although his optics were bright and alert at least, and the readouts on the monitors nearby were all reassuringly stable. First Aid wouldn’t have left him if he was still in any danger, although it had taken all five Aerialbots to convince him to finally take a break and recharge. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sideswipe still remembered with some amusement the way First Aid had taken over Bumblebee’s repairs, practically shoving Ratchet out of the way without so much as a by-your-leave, the expression on the junior medic’s face furious in a way Sideswipe had never seen before. He had suddenly gotten the feeling that Megatron was very lucky he was no longer in the vicinity of Cybertron. Ratchet had taken one look at First Aid’s face and stepped into the role of assistant without comment.  
  
Bumblebee’s optics squinted in a smile and he waggled a hand at Sideswipe in a victory gesture they’d taught him from their gladiator days. Roller sat up from where he’d been snuggled against Bee’s side and chirped a greeting at Sideswipe, then made a questioning sound at Bumblebee. Bumblebee made a sort of hum-buzz back, and Roller buzzed assent, clambering down the berth and transforming to roll off somewhere with purpose.   
  
 _My nurse,_  Bumblebee commed.   
  
“Still haven’t been able to get you a new vocalizer, huh?”  
  
 _Oh no, they replaced the vocalizer. It just refuses to sync up to my processor and systems properly._  Bumblebee shifted slightly, an expression of frustration briefly crossing his face.  _I know Aid and Ratchet don’t want to give up, but...it’s not looking good. They can’t find anything to fix._  
  
“Aw, slag. I’m sorry, Bee.”  
  
Bumblebee sighed, then pulled himself up painfully to sit higher on the berth and patted Sideswipe on the arm.  _Don’t look so sad, Sides. If that’s the worst I’m left with after a face off with Megatron, I still count myself the luckiest slagger on the planet._  
  
“You can still beep, though, right? That’s some consolation.” Sideswipe was pleased to see Bumblebee snicker with laughter.   
  
 _Heck, yeah. Roller never seems to have any trouble getting his point across. He’s been giving me tips. And Jazz said he’d hook me up with a sweet pair of speakers._  
  
Roller returned with a cube of energon carefully balanced on his alt mode, nudging Sideswipe’s foot until he picked it up and handed it to Bumblebee. Roller then transformed and tapped Sideswipe insistently on the leg, then pointed to the berth, and Sideswipe chuckled as he picked up the little mech and set him next to Bee again. No trouble getting his point across, indeed. 


	19. Ratchet and Ironhide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another snippet with no Protectobots! Takes place before the P-bots were created, back when the Aerialbots were still sparklings.

“Ratchet?” Ironhide said in concern, as he entered the medbay. Ratchet looked up in alarm and started to say something, but was unable to speak for a moment as he coughed and wheezed through his vents. 

Ironhide put a steadying hand on his shoulder and steered him to a berth. “Frag, Ratch, you’re burning up!” 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your cannons in a twist, Hide. I’m fine.” Ratchet’s engine made an unhealthy grinding sound and Ratchet sighed and coughed again and sat up straighter with an effort, meeting Ironhide’s skeptical gaze. “Where are the Aerialbots?”

“Rechargin’, finally. Wheeljack’s watchin’ ‘em. And you don’t look fine. Look like slag.”

“Thank you for your expert medical assessment,” Ratchet said, the hoarseness of his voice rendering the sarcasm somewhat less effective than it might have been. “My comm system’s already glitching. I need you to let Wheeljack know to make sure they stay away from medbay for the next orn, ok? I don’t want them to get infected; we don’t have a good anti-virus for this one yet.” 

“Yet,” Ironhide repeated, giving Ratchet a hard stare. “You infected yourself on purpose, didn’t you.”

Ratchet waved a dismissive hand. “That outbreak is a little too close for comfort, and now that they're flying it's only a matter of time before they get exposed. It won’t do more than give me a case of overheating and glitchy vents, but this one’s proven to be a lot more serious for jet frames, and jet frame newbuilds are going to be even more vulnerable. Not”--Ratchet was overcome by another fit of coughing--“not taking any chances.” 

“Yer a good mech, Ratch,” Ironhide rumbled, sitting on the berth next to Ratchet. Ratchet batted at him ineffectually as the weapons master wrapped an arm around him. 

“Don’t touch me, you big lug! I’m going to have to quarantine you, too!” 

“I can think of worse fates. Get me out of jet-sitting duty for awhile. Besides, someone’s gotta take care of ya.” 

“I don’t need taking care of, it’s just a mild--” Ratchet’s vents stuttered again, and a fit of sneezing caused him to bang his noseplate painfully against Ironhide’s shoulder this time. “Ow.” 

“Suuure ya don’t,” Ironhide drawled, easing Ratchet down to the berth, where he curled up miserably on his side, grumbling to himself. “Fix you up a cube of hot oil? Gotta keep you in good shape so your systems can come up with a kick aft anti-virus, right?” 

Ratchet squinted at him from the berth with a one-eyed glare, and Ironhide chuckled, knowing he’d found the right tactic.

Ratchet sighed and offlined his optics, surrendering. “Tyrant.” 

“Mm hm.”

“Thanks, Hide.” 

“Anytime, Ratch.” 


	20. First Aid lives in the medbay

His first thought, looking in the niche between what looked to be an incubator for medical samples and some sort of chemical analyzer, was that First Aid had passed out or fallen somehow and ended up wedged in between the two machines. The medic had clearly crawled in there on purpose however. First Aid’s optics were shuttered, visor dark as he recharged. His facemask was retracted and he was smiling faintly, hands tucked up under his chin with his chest and faceplates pressed closely against the warm, faintly rumbling surface of the incubator.   
  
Sideswipe stared for a moment. He really  _does_  recharge in the medbay, was his bemused thought, and then, looking at the way First Aid was snuggled against the incubator, felt his spark catch in sudden understanding.   
  
A light touch on his shoulder made Sideswipe nearly jump out of his armor. He turned to see Ratchet, expression inscrutable, motioning him to follow.   
  
Ratchet carefully eased the door to the storage room closed after they exited.   
  
“He recharges so lightly,” Ratchet said softly. “I’m surprised you didn’t wake him; all those systems checks must have worn him out.”  
  
“Ratchet…” Sideswipe felt strangely like crying, but resisted the urge. He’d done enough of that slag for a couple of vorns at least. “He recharges like that?”  
  
Ratchet nodded. “Since he lost his brothers."


	21. Silverbolt has arachnopodophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skipping day 15 of NaNoSnipMo because otherwise I'd have to up the rating on the snippets! I'll post that one separately ^_~ 
> 
> Warning for spider-like critter in this one.

Ironhide had cleared Hot Spot to carry a pulse rifle around base only one orn earlier - he’d not had occasion to actually use it yet. Still, when Silverbolt yelped and scaled the fuel hoses in the newly repaired shuttle bay all the way to the ceiling, Hot Spot didn’t hesitate. He activated and aimed his rifle at the tiny creature that had sent Silverbolt scrambling into the rafters, just as Ironhide had taught him.   
  
“What! What is it!” Hot Spot yelled up at Silverbolt.  
  
“Arachnopod!” Silverbolt yelled back. “Gah!”  
  
“What’s an arachnopod?!”  
  
“Only the most horrible, disgusting, terrifying--gleeeaaaargh!!” Silverbolt let out another panicked yelp as the arachnopod suddenly stiffened its tentacles into stilt-like appendages and scampered sideways along the wall. “Don’t let it eat my face!” Hot Spot jumped, startled by the speed of the creature and Silverbolt’s yell more than anything, but recovered himself and caught up with the arachnopod with only a few of his much larger steps, centering it in his rifle again.  
  
The creature stared up at Hot Spot with a multitude of luminous, green-purple optics, mounted at intervals on a round central body that was balanced on eight gracefully coiled tentacles, tucked next to its body now that it was no longer moving. It was no bigger than Hot Spot’s smallest finger digit, decorated with intricate whorled patterns of silver and bronze.   
  
It didn’t look particularly horrible to Hot Spot. It was actually...sort of pretty, and certainly very interesting. Maybe Silverbolt had mistaken it for something else? He commed Streetwise with an image capture, and his brother sent back an enthusiastic reply and a torrent of information. “Streetwise says they’re not dangerous, Silverbolt. Why are you up on the ceiling?”   
  
“I don’t care if they’re not dangerous, I just don’t like them! Is it still there?”   
  
Don’t like them was an understatement, Hot Spot thought, given the way Silverbolt was shuddering and refusing to even look in the general direction of the arachnopod. Hot Spot lowered his rifle. It was too small to shoot, and anyway he didn’t want to hurt it if he didn’t have to. According to Streetwise it was highly unlikely that it would jump at him and try to eat his face. The tiny mouthparts of arachnopods were only good for piercing the thin membrane-shells of energon flies, completely incapable of doing any damage to armor.   
  
“Yeah, it’s still here. Would you like me to take it somewhere else?”   
  
“Yes, please.” Silverbolt said in a small, grateful voice.  
  
Hot Spot eyed the arachnopod doubtfully. It was tiny, but it was awfully fast. He was going to need reinforcements.   
  
A breem and a half later after an exciting pounce-chase involving Groove, Streetwise, and Hot Spot, the arachnopod was safely ensconced in a box and on its way to be examined by First Aid and Blades and Wheeljack (but not Ratchet, who apparently shared Silverbolt’s opinion on arachnopods).  
  
“Ok, Silverbolt, you can come down now.”  
  
“It’s gone?”  
  
“Very gone,” Hot Spot reassured him, and Silverbolt cautiously and somewhat sheepishly came down from the rafters, using his thrusters this time.   
  
“Why didn’t you do that in the first place, instead of climbing the hoses?” Hot Spot asked curiously.  
  
“I didn’t even think,” Silverbolt said, recovered enough to give a short laugh. “I just wanted to get away. The...the  _legs_ , and the  _scampering_!” Silverbolt wiggled his fingers in imitation and gave another shudder.   
  
“Well, if we ever find another one, I’ll save you, don’t worry Silverbolt.”  
  
Silverbolt clapped him on the back. “Hot Spot, that’s the best thing I’ve heard all cycle. Let’s move on to the next section,” he added, nudging the sparkling along in front of him. “You go first.” 


	22. No false comfort

He was badly hurt, but not dying, Blades knew. He knew it with all of First Aid’s surety as his brother assessed his injuries and quickly sealed off the worst of the leaking, blocked the worst of the pain. I’ll get to you, the quick resting of First Aid’s hand against his helm said, before his brother moved swiftly to the next mangled form and faltering spark. This was no false comfort, this was truth as certain as the gestalt bond that linked them. I’ll get to you as soon as I can you’ll be fine.


	23. Ratchet's first time trying to save the twins

“Hang in there, Sideswipe. Slaggit,” he gritted out as he quickly sealed off leaking energon lines. The rubble of the doorway shook as something tried to blast it from the other side. Sideswipe’s spark wasn’t stabilizing, the severity of his injuries, exertion from holding off the invading Decepticons, and half-repaired damage from the virus joining in a deadly three way combination.

Ratchet spared a glance up as monitors beeped from the other berth with the yellow warrior, the mech shifting restlessly, his spark pulse suddenly becoming erratic. Pit. Slag. It. All. To. Pit. There was nothing he could do. Sideswipe was critical; he couldn’t leave for a nanoklik or he would deactivate. Ratchet frantically tried to stabilize his spark.

The yellow mech moaned feebly, then again, louder. The beeping intensified, then cut off abruptly. Ratchet looked up to find that the yellow mech had rolled off the berth and was now dragging himself across the floor.

“Sides…” it started as a hoarse moan, and then rose in volume, as the yellow mech continued to try to make his way across the floor to Sideswipe.

“Lie down, hold still,” Ratchet barked. The yellow mech didn’t have the energy reserves for that sort of thing. He wasn’t going to last long at this rate, unless he could get him calmed down. Primus, if he didn’t know better he’d say they were acting like a bonded pair. Or a fraggin’ gestalt. Or…Ratchet’s energon ran cold. Twins. Spark twins.

“Sideswipe!” The yellow mech was screaming now, over and over. Sideswipe’s spark faltered, faded for a moment, then came back unevenly. The other mech convulsed, briefly, with a cry of agony, confirming Ratchet’s suspicions. Spark twins. He’d only seen one case before in his entire medical career, the other twin dying within kliks of his brother even though he’d been completely uninjured. Sideswipe’s spark faltered yet again, and the other one cried out again, weaker this time. Soft but full of agony, and entirely too similar to the sound First Aid had made when... Not this, not this again, Ratchet’s thoughts ran through his processor in a jumble of horror. Please Primus I can’t watch this again, can’t watch him dying and not a thing I can do…

“No!” The cry was desperate, torn from a mech at the end of endurance. Ratchet glanced up again, fearing the worst, and froze in complete and utter shock. A familiar white-and-red form was pinning the yellow warrior to the floor, hands gripping either side of the helm by the wide flaring vents, their optics were locked.


	24. Hot Spot and future!P-bots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Posted this as a new chapter to the wrong set of snippets originally. Fixed now!

Hot Spot sipped slowly at his cube of energon, as instructed, although it was hard not to swallow it in a few frantic gulps; it had been so long since he’d tasted real fuel. The other Hot Spot kept a comforting hand on his shoulder while the other First Aid moved on to Blades, but Hot Spot wasn’t worried. He had complete confidence in any First Aid’s ability to repair whatever might be wrong with the other three from so long in stasis, no matter what universe he was from.  
  
“Once they’re ready to bring back online, we’ll stay out of sight and let you break the news,” the other Hot Spot said, and Hot Spot nodded. It was going to be a lot to swallow: that they’d found First Aid, but not  _their_  First Aid, and that in a few moments they would be face to face with much older versions of themselves. Amazing and devastating all at once, although all hope of finding their Aid was not lost.  
  
“You said there might be a way?” he asked.  
  
Other Streetwise grinned from where he was monitoring Groove. “Oh, there’s no ‘might’ about it. If there isn’t a way, we’ll build you one!” Hot Spot felt his spark lift at the other Streetwise’s easy confidence. He could feel it through the other gestalt bond. Streetwise meant it. He believed it.  
  
“Prime’s on his way,” the other Hot Spot confirmed. “Tampering with time streams in this section of the universe will involve a bit of delicate negotiating, but Sideswipe’s got a way with plasma-based lifeforms.”  
  
“Sideswipe?” As in Sideswipe Prime? Hot Spot’s optic ridges pinched together at the unfamiliar name, suddenly worried, not entirely sure he wanted to ask. “Not...Optimus?” He was reassured immediately by other Hot Spot’s easy laugh and warm brush of thought through the gestalt bond.  
  
“Oh don’t worry, we’ve still got Optimus, too. He’s taking a vacation from Prime duties for awhile, although it’s too bad he’s on the other side of the rift with Rodimus and the kiddos. He’d have loved to meet you.”  
  
“Oh, good.” Hot Spot wrapped his arms around his knees, smiling a little at the thought of Optimus on a vacation. Wheeljack had explained about vacations once - they’d sounded like something Optimus should definitely get to do!   
  
Hot Spot blinked as he realized a small hand was patting his arm. “Ointment?” a tiny piping voice asked hopefully. Hot Spot leaned slightly to see a very tiny mechling with thin orange-and-white armor and bright blue optics examining the incursions of rust on his arm where the nanites had collapsed from chronic underfueling.   
  
Other Groove bent next to the little mech and handed him a tube and gave him an affectionate pat on the helm. “There you go, bitlet. Hot Spot, meet Aid’s latest project,” he said, as the tiny mech climbed aboard Hot Spot’s arm and began dabbing at the rusty spots with the contents of the tube, an intent expression on the little faceplates. “This is Medix. He’s a bit of a chip off the old engine block.”   
  
“Wow, you built him?” Hot Spot asked.  
  
The other First Aid looked up at that, smiling fondly over at him and the little mech on his arm. “In a manner of speaking.”  
  
Hot Spot smiled too at the warm affection filling the gestalt bond, wrapping around him and the tiny little mech and all of his sleeping brothers, the constant ache in his spark easing somewhat. For the first time in far too long it felt like everything was going to be ok. 


	25. Sideswipe helps rescue Silverbolt

“Whoa, that doesn’t look...right,” Sideswipe said, squinting at the sky. The Aerialbots were headed in, but something was...off. Four jet-shapes were clustered behind the fifth, largest shape, who had to be Silverbolt. Silverbolt wasn’t usually the most daredevil of fliers, Sideswipe had noticed, but right now the gestalt commander looked like he was trying to give Air Raid a run for his money: he was veering wildly, diving and rising, and every once in awhile he’d go into a tumbling spin before righting himself again, with his four brothers tailing but not joining in, and...was that Blades underneath? The helo appeared to be trying to shadow Silverbolt’s path from below...and there was something else odd about Silverbolt’s form. Sunstreaker straightened suddenly, brushing past Sideswipe for a better view. That was First Aid clinging to Silverbolt’s back as he continued his wobbling, uncertain path. What the slag was going on?  
  
Hot Spot, Groove, and Streetwise came pounding up alongside them, also staring up at the sky.   
  
“Sideswipe, can you get up there?” Hot Spot asked, urgently. “Silverbolt’s unconscious, but his thrusters are malfunctioning; Aid’s steering but he can’t shut them down. Blades is going to try to stop him, but....”  
  
“Back up. Gotcha,” Sideswipe said, nodding without taking his optics off the approaching forms. He powered up his jet pack and took off.   
  
 _Sideswipe, we need to slow him down so I can get ahead of him,_  Blades commed. Blades was straining at his top speed just to keep up. Sideswipe narrowed his optics and positioned himself directly in Silverbolt’s flight trajectory, such as it was. Closer, closer...he could see First Aid clearly now, clamped on to Silverbolt’s dorsal surface. He’d somehow managed to access a data port and patch into Silverbolt’s systems, but Sideswipe could see the scorch marks, and damage to Silverbolt’s side and ventral surface. Sideswipe calculated rapidly, balancing in midair. Silverbolt made another dip and wobble and Sideswipe lunged and grabbed, ending up wrapped around Silverbolt’s front end, nearly helm to helm with First Aid.  
  
He let his legs dangle and turned the jet pack thrusters to maximum, a strategy which backfired at first. The counterthrust only tilted Silverbolt up into a steep climb. First Aid did something with Silverbolt’s flaps, though, that brought them back to mostly level...and it was working! Sideswipe caught the blurred form of a helicopter from the corner of his optics as Blades passed them, and then he was wrapped in netting as Blades deployed his rescue harness.  
  
 _Keep your thrusters going, please, Sideswipe,_  First Aid instructed calmly, as he reached to secure the harness around Silverbolt and Sideswipe.  _Don’t worry, they won’t melt through the netting._  
  
Sideswipe did as instructed, and then clung tightly, doing his best to assist with strategic thruster angling as Blades wrestled his cargo of jet, frontliner, and medic to the ground. They landed with a relatively gentle bump and short drag before Blades cut loose the harness, and then Silverbolt’s thrusters tried to dig the jet’s nosecone into the rubble. Then Hot Spot, Groove, Streetwise, and Sunstreaker were there, untangling Sideswipe from the harness and helping him roll free, and bracing First Aid on Silverbolt’s unsteady form as he began rapidly dismantling parts of Silverbolt’s armor to get to the thruster mechanisms. The high, strained whine of the thrusters cut off abruptly and Silverbolt’s frame fell still at last. First Aid hopped down, and Sunstreaker and Hot Spot caught him as he staggered.   
  
“You ok?” Hot Spot asked, checking him over.  
  
First Aid gave his brother a quick, slightly disoriented smile. “I’m fine, but I think I should probably leave the flying to jet frames from now on.”  
  
“Silverbolt!!”   
  
Hot Spot let go of his brother with a quick pat and went to help his brothers wrangle four panicky jets, leaving Sunstreaker and Sideswipe to assist First Aid.   
  
“Seal that off, thank you,” he instructed, tossing Sideswipe a spare welder, “and keep pressure there, please,” to Sunstreaker. First Aid patched back into Silverbolt’s systems and began an energon transfusion. Blades joined them after a few moments, and helped get Silverbolt in position so Aid could trigger him to transform back to root mode. Shortly after Silverbolt onlined with a startled flailing of arms and legs.  
  
“You’re on the ground, Silverbolt,” First Aid said quickly, pinning him reassuringly. “You got hit by a ground cannon, but you’re going to be ok.” Silverbolt subsided with a groan. “You can come closer, guys,” First Aid sat up to address the rest of the Aerialbots, hovering anxiously behind the rest of the Protectobots. “Just leave me enough room to work and don’t jostle him, ok?”   
  
“Slooowly,” Hot Spot reminded them, and Sideswipe snorted in amusement as the Aerialbots minced forward with exaggerated caution to cluster around their commander to hug and pat whatever parts of him were undamaged.  
  
“We were so worried!”  
  
“Don’t do that again, ok?”  
  
“Mm ok, guys,” Silverbolt mumbled fondly. “Except…” Silverbolt frowned, his optics wandering until they focused on Sideswipe, giving him a puzzled look.   
  
“Except what?” Fireflight asked, worried.  
  
“Why do I remember Sideswipe hugging my face?” 


	26. Hot Spot gets to be the damsel in distress

_I see them!_  Silverbolt commed the rest of his brothers. Both relief and anger flooded his spark the closer he got. Relief that the Protectobots were all there and looked to be mostly unharmed, thank Primus, but…the Seekers had  _tied them up!_  Oh they were gonna pay for this one. Each Protectobot was lashed securely to a pillar, exposed to the swiftly incoming storm.   
  
Silverbolt transformed and landed in front of Hot Spot.   
  
“I am. Very glad to see you,” Hot Spot said, his red optics on the storm front.   
  
“I’ll bet!” Silverbolt said, as he quickly started cutting through Hot Spot’s bindings. Slag, those Seekers hadn’t taken any chances. At least they hadn’t used glue. “Is the rest of your team ok?”   
  
“We’re all fine, just annoyed they caught us off guard like that.”   
  
Hot Spot came free from the pillar finally, and Silverbolt moved on to Blades while Hot Spot started working on First Aid’s bindings.   
  
 _How far out are you?_  Silverbolt commed, as he wrestled with the strips wrapped around Blades. The Seekers had been particularly inventive with the helo, with bindings intertwined all through his rotors. Blades wouldn’t be able to get airborne until someone with a lot of patience and time got it all sorted out. Silverbolt had neither, but at least he could get him off the pillar. He could hear the hiss of the rain, growing closer.  
  
 _I’m half a breem away,_  Skydive answered.  _Everyone else is right behind me._  
  
“We’re not going to make it,” Silverbolt said, as Blades wriggled loose and started freeing Streetwise. “I can’t carry you all, and the rest of my guys are too far out.”  
  
“Go!” Hot Spot said, as he and First Aid cut Groove loose. A fine mist blew ahead of the leading edge of the rain, scouring fine lines across their armor. “We’ll find shelter, just get out of here!”   
  
“Like slag I’m going to leave you! Come on, run!” Silverbolt grabbed Blades and Streetwise by the hands, while Hot Spot took Groove and First Aid, and they all plummeted into the ruins ahead of storm.


	27. Slingshot doesn't care no really

“Blades is sick?” Slingshot asked, before his processor caught up with his vocalizer. 

Streetwise shook his helm. “Not exactly. Just...sometimes he wakes up and everything sort of hurts. Ratchet thinks it’s leftover from the disrupter cannon blast. We’re all still a little stiff when we come out of recharge, especially Aid, but Blades sometimes has a harder day.”

Silverbolt frowned in concern. “I didn’t know that.”

“It doesn’t stop us from doing anything, most of the time,” Streetwise shrugged. “I don’t like it when Blades is hurting though," he added with an unhappy sigh. "First Aid’s making sure he stays in his berth and rests; he should be fine in a few cycles.” 

Streetwise left for the start of his own shift, after reassurances to Silverbolt that he would comm him if he or First Aid or Blades needed anything. Silverbolt turned to head out as well, but paused. Slingshot stood with his arms crossed, chewing on his lip plating in a way Silverbolt was familiar with. He nudged his brother a little through the gestalt bond. 

“C’mon. Spill it.”

Slingshot vented a gust of air through his intakes in annoyance, but met Silverbolt’s optics with a determined expression. “A hot oil soak would help, wouldn’t it.” 

Silverbolt nodded slowly. For stiffness, or old battle damage there was nothing better. He remembered how nice a good long soak had felt on healing repairs. “Yes, probably. The oil baths have been out of commission for nearly a vorn though.”

“What would it take to get them operational again?” Silverbolt felt his face break out into a smile. Slingshot recrossed his arms defensively. “What? I”m just asking.” 

Silverbolt clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Slingshot, I like the way you think. Let’s go ask Wheeljack.”


	28. Little Bee says hi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one makes a lot more sense if you've read [Little Buddy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1057606).

“It’s the little guy!”   
  
“Aw, look at him, peeking out.”  
  
There was a quantity of excited whispering and smiles as First Aid made his way across to the energon dispenser in the rec room, a little self consciously, but he was bolstered by his brothers, who were keeping close. Most everyone had come up with some excuse to stop by the medbay and had met or at least glimpsed the new arrival, but this was the first time First Aid had been out and about with him anywhere but the medbay or their quarters. Bee was in his favorite hideout, small and warm and wedged up against his neck. His bright, swift-beating spark was so vibrant, so  _alive_  against his armor - Aid marveled again that he’d been so completely oblivious.  
  
They joined Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Bumblebee at a table, and after awhile of everyone pretending to ignore him, Little Bee grew brave enough to unwedge himself and venture out down First Aid’s arm to the table, peering between the fingers of Aid's hand. He poked his helm up as he saw someone he recognized.  
  
“Bee!” he crowed in delight, pointing one tiny finger digit.  
  
“Bee!” Big Bumblebee echoed, grinning as he pointed his own larger digit right back, leaning a little across the table as if to poke the tiny sparkling. Little Bee chortled and hid behind First Aid’s hand, peeking out and giggling every time Bumblebee made optic contact and leaned. First Aid and the rest of the Protectobots watched them both, smiling fondly.   
  
“Hey, what about me?” Sideswipe said, starting to feel neglected.  
  
“Don’t worry, Sideswipe,” First Aid said. “He knows you, too, don’t you sweetspark.” Bee looked up at him and made a questioning sound. “Do you want to say hi to Sideswipe?” First Aid asked. The sparkling blinked his tiny optics a few times, processing, and then scampered across the table and up Sideswipe’s arm to his helm. The frontliner froze in astonishment, not daring to move.   
  
A tiny voice peeped in one audio, “Swipe!” and then the sparkling scampered down and up again to Sunstreaker’s helm. “Tweak!” He was back across the table and safe under First Aid’s chin again before either of them could react.   
  
“Good job, itty bit!” Hot Spot told the little bundle of silver, laughing at the twins’ flummoxed expressions.


	29. Thundercracker and the Ebil Protectobots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a weird little AU from my head, not trying to stick to any particular Shattered Glass or Mirrorverse.

Thundercracker hid his terror as Prowl marched him through the ominous corridors of the Autobot base. Nameless, half-seen creatures scuttled or slithered out of the way as they walked, and Prowl steered him through puddles of...liquid, that was as specific as Thundercracker wanted to get. Call it liquid and leave it at that. Unsettling scratching, scampering sounds echoed faintly. Thundercracker inhaled and exhaled through his vents as they walked. Don’t panic. He could handle this. The Autobots were everything that was evil and sadistic, but he was an elite Decepticon Seeker, best of the best. He’d die before he let them break him.   
  
Prowl paused at last before a set of doors and keyed them open, shoving Thundercracker through. Four pairs of red optics, and one set of...blue? looked up as they entered. “He’s all yours,” the enforcer growled. “Make him talk. If he won’t talk, strip him for parts.”  
  
Prowl left, and the five mechs looked at one another and then at Thundercracker. “First Aid does love parts,” said the largest, a pale blue-and-black fire truck with the odd Decepticon-blue optics. “Blades, put him on the...examination berth.”   
  
The helo model nodded and took Thundercracker by the stasis cuffs, steering him towards a flat, padded table with various instruments and devices next to it on the wall or dangling overhead. “Don’t worry,” the helo, Blades, murmured in one audio. “First Aid’s the best Autobot torturer in the field, you’ll be in good hands. Studied under Ratchet you know.”   
  
Thundercracker twitched, keeping himself bolting in panic only by sheer willpower. The evil Ratchet! And this was his apprentice!   
  
“On his back, please, Blades,” the red-visored medic-bot said in a soft, even voice. “Mind his wings.”   
  
Thundercracker trembled as First Aid raised the berth to a comfortable working height, bringing him level with the white-and-red chestplates. “I’m not afraid of you!” he said defiantly.  
  
“Oh good! In that case, I believe I’ll leave off the restraints, if you think you’ll be able to hold still and not flop around everywhere. So much easier when the patient...er…” First Aid paused.  
  
“Victim,” prompted a black-and-white mech, looking up from where he’d been delicately placing small cubes of energon into a box on a table. Whatever was in the box growled and squawked, causing the whole container to shiver.  
  
“Victim, yes, thank you Streetwise. So much easier when the victim isn’t flopping, although Groove and Streetwise are always happy to sit on you if you’d prefer.” First Aid looked at him expectantly, apparently waiting for an answer.  
  
“I can hold still. Do your worst!” Thundercracker said, although he couldn’t help cringing a little as First Aid smiled happily and began...flushing his hydraulic fluid?  
  
“Dear, dear, when did you last have this changed?” First Aid murmured. “This won’t do at all, better have a complete systems check. Clearly you’ve been neglecting regular maintenance for quite some time. And these dents! Oh my, how did you get those? Groove, could you start buffing out these scratches? Want to have you looking and feeling your best, you know, before we get to the fun part!” First Aid said brightly.   
  
Thundercracker offlined his optics and did his best to remain stoic and silent as he was...thoroughly cleaned, buffed and polished, fluid reservoirs flushed and refilled, joints and wing flaps lubricated, filters replaced,dentals flossed and aligned, optics calibrated…  
  
“You’re so quiet,” Groove said, as he worked on scrubbing accumulated grit from Thundercracker’s foot components. “You don’t feel like talking, yet?” Thundercracker onlined his optics and did his best to glare, although it was hard to do over the shiny, freshly polished and waxed expanse of his cockpit.   
  
“This is taking quite a bit longer than I anticipated, my apologies, Thundercracker,” First Aid said conversationally. “You must be hungry. Blades, perhaps you could go get him a cube of energon? And Streetwise could show you the baby tunnel snakes, if you’re bored. They just hatched today, and they’re quite adorable.” First Aid smiled fondly over at his brother. “They’re kind of taking over the whole base, and Red Alert keeps complaining about the energon puddles when we feed them, but when Streets found another nest we just couldn’t say no.”   
  
“No!” Thundercracker said quickly, as Streetwise moved as if to pick up the box. “No, that’s...that’s all right.”  
  
“There you go, now you’re talking a little,” Groove said, patting one very clean foot approvingly before starting on the other. “Keep that up and this’ll be over in no time.”   
  
“I don’t want you to be bored. Maybe a holo-vid, while you’re waiting?” First Aid said, looking at Thundercracker hopefully. “Or some soothing music? Torture  _is_  rather nerve-wracking.”   
  
Blades returned and came over to the berth, holding out a cube of energon with a friendly smile, and Thundercracker’s nerve broke at last. “What! What do you want to know! Just ask me, I’ll tell you anything, just please...please…” Thundercracker wasn’t sure what he was planning to babble next. Please stop cleaning my toes? Please don’t fix my faulty airspeed sensor?   
  
“You’re ready to talk?” Hot Spot said, coming over and pulling up a chair.   
  
“Yes, I’m ready to talk!”  
  
“Wonderful! I've always wanted to talk to a Seeker,” Hot Spot said, grinning and leaning forward eagerly. “Here, let’s take off your stasis cuffs so you can drink your energon. Talking can be thirsty business. So, what’s it like to have wings? I’ve always wondered! And have you ever been to Maccadam’s? Ironhide keeps telling us stories, but we’ve never been.”   
  
“Yeah, does he really serve oil by the barrel? Is it true you can meet people from other dimensions?” Streetwise chimed in.   
  
“Does Starscream really wear a crown or was Jazz just making that up?” Groove asked, looking up from where he was carefully pulling out an old dent.   
  
“Now now, one question at a time,” First Aid admonished, propping up the front of the berth so Thundercracker could sit upright. Blades handed him the cube of energon and pulled up another chair, and Streetwise sat halfway on his brother's lap, all of them looking at him eagerly.   
  
Much later…  
  
“Here, take yer prisoner,” Ironhide said, shoving Thundercracker forward ungraciously. Starscream released the Autobot Jazz, who gave him a brazen wink as they passed one another, and then he was running to be engulfed by Skywarp’s welcoming embrace.  
  
“TC! I was so worried, are you ok?” Skywarp babbled, hugging him tightly and then holding him out at arm’s length to check him over. “You look...wow, you look really great! And...what kind of polish is that, you smell awesome, too.”  
  
“They...they hugged me, ‘Warp.” Thundercracker said, still in shock, not sure how he’d survived. “And here, they baked us energon goodies. They said they were evil energon goodies, but I tried one right after they baked them and it was really good.” He pulled out a package from subspace, neatly wrapped, with an elaborate aluminum bow stuck on top.   
  
“Cool! Hey Starscream, looks like your plan worked! I should never have doubted you.”   
  
Thundercracker stopped in his tracks. “Plan. You mean...you let them capture me  _on purpose_?!”  
  
Starscream rolled his optics. “Don’t be so dramatic, Thundercracker, of course I did. Your paint job was starting to look like slag. Now hand me those goodies.”


	30. Protectobots: the very VERY beginnings

Wheeljack tilted his helm back in awe. The AllSpark! Somehow he hadn’t expected it to be so big, and so...beautiful. He’d seen Vector Sigma, of course, before it was destroyed, but the AllSpark gave an even greater impression of unfathomable age, of  _awareness_ , even though it lacked a voice or any recognizable data interface. Scored and scarred, traced by elaborate, mysterious glyphs and occasional blue traceries of energy, the source of life and energy for all of Cybertron.  
  
“Don’t you dare try to take it apart,” Ratchet whispered, elbowing Wheeljack in the side and completely disregarding the solemnity of the moment.   
  
“I wouldn’t!” Wheeljack protested indignantly. Ironhide turned to give them a stern look, but Perceptor didn’t react whatsoever. His hands made faint tracing motions as he stared in utter fascination.   
  
“I think Perceptor may be the one to worry about in that regard,” Optimus said softly, a glint of amusement in his optics as he stepped past them to approach the AllSpark. He stood for a long moment, Wheeljack, Ratchet, and Perceptor a respectful step behind, Ironhide guarding them all. Wheeljack wondered, not for the first time, just exactly how this was going to work. There was no Key, no computation matrix for entering requests for particular Cybernetic personality parameters and petitions for the spark to be granted. Only the great Cube, faceless and immense. Maybe they should tap on it a little with something, see what happened? He needn't have worried.  Prime had it all under control.  
  
Optimus lifted a hand to touch the Cube lightly. “AllSpark. Giver of life,” he addressed it, in the formal language of the Primes. “In these dark times on Cybertron, much is broken, many beings cry out in pain, and the darkness grows only greater. We who are responsible for our part in the war that destroys our planet approach you now, not to petition for soldiers and weapons, nor for warrior sparks. Instead, if it be your will, grant us sparks of hope and healing. Battles of a different kind await them.”   
  
Wheeljack bowed his head, the gravity of what they were doing settling in his own spark as Optimus continued. “May they be menders and builders, to repair what we have destroyed. Let their connections to one another bring them strength and joy, that they may bear the burdens they will face. May they protect and defend life and love wherever they find it, beyond faction and form, until all are one.”   
  
“Until all are one,” Wheeljack and the others echoed. Was it his imagination or had the blue pulses of energy increased? The AllSpark seemed to be looming towards them now in a rather interested fashion.   
  
“Ratchet?” Optimus said, and the medic handed him a small spark containment field. Wheeljack felt his spark pulse quicken in excitement and trepidation. Either this would work or...or it wouldn’t. For a long moment Optimus held the containment field in front of the AllSpark, with his hands outstretched in front of him at chest level. The lines of energy pulsed faster and brighter. Optimus lifted his hands until the containment field almost touched, the AllSpark sang, a low sweet reverberance, and...ZAP! Optimus braced one foot behind him but held steady as the containment field flared and filled with light.   
  
“Welcome, bright spark,” Optimus said, lowering his hands and smiling at the new life cradled there.  
  
“Holy sl...holy Primus, it worked!” Ironhide said.   
  
“It appears so,” Optimus said, not taking his optics off the sparklet. It buzzed and wriggled a little in his hands.  
  
“And a lively spark you are,” Perceptor told it, coming closer to peer at it in delight.  
  
“Perceptor?” Ratchet held out another containment field. Perceptor looked startled.  
  
“Oh! But I...well I must say, it’s all very fascinating, but I’m hardly worthy…” he waved one hand towards Optimus.  
  
“I am afraid, Perceptor, that my hands are full,” Optimus told him solemnly, although his optics were squinted in a grin.   
  
“Oh, then...very well, I suppose.” Perceptor approached the AllSpark cautiously, holding the containment field in front of him like a shield. “Must I compose a speech as well or...oh! Oh my! How remarkable!” The AllSpark hummed and a bright arc of energy gathered and zapped into the containment field before Perceptor got even within arm’s length of the Cube this time. Perceptor took the newspark and went to stand next to Optimus, holding it close.   
  
Ironhide, poked and prodded by Ratchet, went next. “Old soft spark,” Ratchet teased him gently, as a bit of optic fluid gathered in the weapon’s masters optics as he stared in awe at the new life in his hands. Ironhide grumbled and revved his cannons, but not too loudly, and went to join Perceptor and Optimus, and then it was Wheeljack’s turn.  
  
His hands trembled a little as he took the containment field, and he steadied them with an effort as he approached the AllSpark. The fourth spark took its time, until Wheeljack began to fear he would be denied, but then the AllSpark sang again, and the bright lightning struck, and his hands filled with warmth and light.  
  
“Hello! Hello there!” Wheeljack found himself saying over and over, laughing in wonder.   
  
Ratchet took the last containment field and brought it forward slowly. The AllSpark hummed a soft rising note as he grew closer, and then light gathered and spiraled down, settling gently into Ratchet’s hands. They all stood together, losing track of time as they watched the new sparks gleam and pulse. Now and then one would hum or buzz softly, an echo of the AllSpark’s song.  
  
“Now just stop that, young spark,” Perceptor said, as the spark in his hands started trying to migrate up one arm. “Should we put them together?”   
  
Wheeljack and Ratchet looked at one another and Ratchet shrugged.“The Aerialbots were spark-linked for who knows how many vorns before they were framed. I don’t know that the timing matters. We’ll need to put them in stasis anyway for the trip back; might as well let them be together.”   
  
“This one certainly seems to be looking for something,” Optimus said, as his sparklet began nudging its way between his fingers.  
  
Ratchet and Wheeljack gently tipped their sparklets into the insulated box first, where they found and glommed on to one another almost immediately, containment fields merging. Optimus, Perceptor, and Ironhide added their sparklets next, and they watched as the five hummed and spun and wriggled around one another.   
  
“Ok, kiddos,” Wheeljack told them, dialing down the controls on the container. “Settle down now. I’ll wake you when your frames are ready.” The five sparks gradually slowed and dimmed, pulsing softly in unison.   
  
“Well done, everyone,” Optimus said, putting a warm hand on Wheeljack’s shoulder, and wasn’t it funny, Wheeljack thought, how they all couldn’t stop smiling at one another, even though Ironhide was doing his best to hide it. “Let’s bring them home.” 


	31. Bring them home

Silverbolt, sitting next to Wheeljack and Ratchet and facing Optimus, Jazz, and Prowl, tried not to feel like he’d just ratted out Air Raid and Slingshot after a prank. First Aid hadn’t specified not to tell anyone else he was hearing the voices of his deactivated brothers, but still, it was hard not to feel like he’d broken a trust. The wild hope that had sprung up in his spark would not be quieted, however, nor hidden from his team, and finally they’d convinced him to go to Wheeljack (and then face the consequences alone, the slaggers).  
  
Optimus heard them out patiently, but the sympathetic look in his optics didn’t give Silverbolt much hope. He was pretty sure Optimus thought they were all grasping at sub-atomic particles. Prowl gave them his polite attention, as always, and Jazz was sitting up from his normal casual sprawl, helm tilted and watching them closely, but Silverbolt couldn’t read his expression at all. He and his brothers were space-capable now, Silverbolt thought half-rebelliously, wondering if he’d really abandon Optimus and the Ark if they said no.   
  
“Prowl?” Optimus turned to his second in command, when Ratchet and Wheeljack had finished.   
  
“Cybertron has grown only more dangerous since we left. Although I am reluctant to risk one of our most valuable assets, I calculate that the Aerialbots and their abilities to navigate quickly through airspace would be critical to the success of such a mission.”   
  
Jazz leaned forward, lacing his hands together. “So ya think there’s something to this? That First Aid’s not just...getting ready to leave us for the Matrix?”   
  
Prowl nodded slowly. “I do. Factoring in the penchant of gestalt teams for pulling off the impossible, especially when the well being of one of their own members is concerned, along with the fact that First Aid, against all odds, has remained alive and functional, I calculate a 63% probability that the Protectobots are, indeed, alive, and are attempting to reach their gestaltmate.”  
  
“Will First Aid be all right so long without you?” Optimus asked. Silverbolt, distracted by Prowl’s odds - 63% was much better than he’d dared to hope! - took a few kliks to recognize that Optimus was asking him a direct question. It sounded like he was considering it! “Ratchet said his systems are under a great deal of stress.”  
  
“He’s got Roller and Bumblebee now, and if Sideswipe and Sunstreaker can be spared…”   
  
Ratchet sighed a little but nodded. “He’s stable. It’s his mental state I’m most concerned about. His spark fluctuations have actually evened out quite a bit in the last orn or so, but he’s back to not recharging until he falls over from exhaustion.”  
  
“The benefits, if we find them…” Wheeljack couldn’t continue.  
  
“Outweigh the risks,” Optimus finished for him. “Wheeljack, I agree. If there is even the smallest chance we could regain the rest of the Protectobots we should take it. I suppose it would be unwise for me to go, too?” he asked wistfully. Prowl gave him a stern look, Jazz grinned and shook his helm, and Optimus slumped a little and sighed.   
  
“Looks like it’s gonna be up to us, my mechs,” Jazz said. At Prowl’s look, he held up his hands. “Who better to sweet talk our way past any Decepticon patrols?”   
  
“Very well then.” Optimus straightened and smiled. “I would caution you to not get your hopes up, but I’m afraid it would be highly hypocritical of me.”   
  
Wheeljack stood up, and Silverbolt had to stand with him because they were clutching one another’s hands, although he didn’t remember when they had done so. “Oh sir, thank you.”   
  
“Find them,” Optimus said. “Go find them and bring them home.” 


	32. On the way home

Silverbolt looked over, checking for the fifth, or twentieth, or hundreth time that it was true. Hot Spot was there, solid and real. Groove and Blades and Streetwise were piled close beside him, just as they had always been. Or, not entirely as they had always been, that wasn’t quite true. He never remembered seeing the Protectobot team this...on edge, even in tense life-and-death situations. Entirely understandable, of course. They had to be running on fumes; the rest of his own team had fallen into recharge over a joor ago. 

“Hey, you doing ok?” he asked, tucking Fireflight a little more securely under his arm. Hot Spot and the rest of his brothers looked up, all of them meeting his optics with a piercing intensity. 

After a moment Hot Spot relaxed, with a deliberate effort, Blades and Groove and Streetwise following suit. “No,” he said, with a half laugh. “Not at all. He’s...he’s really alive? We can feel him, but...you’re sure?”

Silverbolt nodded firmly. “Alive. Alive and waiting for you, even if he doesn’t know it yet.” 

“He’s ok though?” Blades asked, his faceplates pinched in a tense, worried frown. “Wheeljack said...Wheeljack said he doesn’t talk about us.”

“ _Can’t_  talk about you, more like. Don’t think he has forgotten you, not for a klik. He’s...he’s been amazing, all these vorns, but he’s not all the way ok. How could he be, without you? But he will be. He will be, just hang in there.”

Groove was nodding a little, as if to himself. “It makes sense. That’s how he’d deal with it; he’d block it...us, out. Until...later.” None of the Protectobots had said First Aid's name yet, Silverbolt noted. They were talking around things, too.

“Later’s almost here,” Streetwise said, wriggling around a little to snuggle in between Groove and Hot Spot, resting his helm against Hot Spot’s chestplates. “I can’t believe it. I can’t let myself believe it yet.” He was shivering, Silverbolt could see his armor trembling. 

“Come here, you guys, before you wind yourselves into stasis lock.” He nudged Fireflight and Air Raid over a bit to make a space. “You need to rest.” 

Hot Spot hesitated for only a moment, looking at his team, and then they were clambering over to join the Aerialbot pile, snuggling in gratefully as they had once done long ago, when they were very new and sometimes overwhelmed sparklings. Streetwise wasn’t the only one trembling. He nudged the rest of his brothers awake through the gestalt bond. 

//Cuddle pile// he sent, answering their sleepy queries. Slingshot didn’t even roll his optics, just nabbed Blades and tucked him under his wings and wedged them both in next to Hot Spot and Skydive. The Protectobots, exhausted, were in recharge before Fireflight and Slingshot could even start fighting over who got Blades.


	33. Optimus and Ratchet try to break the good news

“Sir, I must apologize. I know I haven’t been at my best lately and--”   
  
Optimus raised his optic ridges in alarm and leaned forward to put a hand on First Aid’s shoulder, stopping him mid-apology. “First Aid, that’s not why I called you here. Your performance of your duties, as always, has been exemplary.”  
  
Ratchet bopped First Aid very lightly on the helm. “Where on Cybertron did you get the idea that this was a disciplinary hearing?”   
  
First Aid blinked, then regarded his mentor with a hint of amusement. “Is it another ‘First Aid needs to take all of his allotted time off’ meeting then? Because I thought we had agreed to disagree. ”   
  
Optimus laughed. “No, this has nothing to do with your performance, or over performance, as the case may be. In fact we...have some news,” Optimus said, glancing at Ratchet, and at the sudden serious note in his voice First Aid gave him his full attention, all levity set aside.   
  
“Not...not the Aerialbots, or..”  
  
Optimus shook his head, moving quickly to reassure him. “They and Wheeljack and Ironhide are all fine, do not fear. In fact, we received a transmission from them only a joor ago, regarding the...success, of their mission.”   
  
First Aid smiled, pleased and relieved to hear it but puzzled all the same. What did their classified mission have to do with him? Unless Optimus and Ratchet wanted to reassure him that they would be returning soon, which would be kind of them but hardly meriting such formality. And why was Optimus Prime looking at him with such an odd expression, half smiling and yet deeply concerned all at the same time? First Aid focused his attention as Optimus began speaking again…  
  
...and finished sanitizing another empty energon infusion packet. His hands were shaking, but First Aid persevered, making sure the packet was completely sterile and neatly folded. They couldn’t afford to waste resources.   
  
“Aid.”   
  
Someone was talking to him. Had been talking to him for awhile. First Aid tried to make his thoughts focus, but it was so hard, hard to even make the effort. He picked up another infusion packet but his hands fumbled, trying to unfold it. He vented more quickly, panic moving through his spark. His hands wouldn’t work, his thoughts wouldn’t work...someone took the packet and unfolded it for him, and their hand stayed, pressing gently on his arm. Ratchet.   
  
“Ratchet.”   
  
“It’s ok, Aid. You’re ok.”   
  
“Ratchet...what…” He managed to focus his optics on Ratchet’s concerned face.   
  
“You’re ok, Aid,” Ratchet said again. “That was our fault. We shouldn’t have...well, I guess we’ll have to just wait a little longer, until Wheeljack and the others get back.”   
  
Realization struck, and First Aid let his hands drop, appalled, as his processor finally kicked back in gear. “I...I walked out of a meeting with Optimus.”   
  
“It was not your fault, First Aid. Do not reproach yourself.” First Aid turned around, startled, as Optimus Prime’s voice came from behind him.   
  
“Oh, but, sir--”  
  
Optimus put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him gently close in a hug, and First Aid leaned in and wrapped his own arms around Prime’s torso as far as he could reach, surprised but in no way loath. He sighed as the trembling eased, Optimus’s spark and arms both warm around him. After awhile he stirred, but Optimus murmured in protest and First Aid relaxed and snuggled in closer. Poor Optimus! He must have really needed hugs…  
  
First Aid didn’t remember falling into recharge. He awoke much later to the faces of two scowling, worried frontliner twins, sandwiched cozily between them. His processor still felt somewhat muzzy and strange, but his spark, for the first time in a very long time, barely hurt at all. 


	34. Reunion - Part 1

Since the meeting with Optimus, First Aid still felt...very odd, as if his processor was wrapped in layers of insulation. He wondered if maybe he had contracted a virus, but all his scans came up clean. Rachet kept telling him not to worry, that everything was going to be all right, but if that were so why was everyone acting so strangely? Sideswipe and Sunstreaker followed him everywhere like two cyberpuppies, and Roller kept bringing him energon until he had a whole string of cubes along his desk, and everyone else would stop talking when he walked by and then pretend entirely too hard that everything was normal.   
  
Bumblebee entered the medbay, with a friendly nod to Ratchet. “So, you’re my sparkling-sitter today?” First Aid asked. Maybe they were planning another surprise sparkday celebration, and that was what was up, like Sideswipe had done when he turned eleven vorns and was officially no longer a sparkling. Except his next sparkday wasn’t for...how old was he now anyway? Time seemed to warp and shift strangely, the reading on his chronometer didn’t feel right.   
  
 _Yep!_  Bumblebee sent cheerily, wrapping First Aid in a hug.  _What can I help you with?_    
  
“Oh, that’s sweet of you, Bumblebee.” First Aid patted his arm, and looked around the medbay at a loss, feeling the beginnings of panic. There was always something to do! Why couldn’t he think of anything for Bumblebee to do? Why was he so muddled and anxious?   
  
 _When was the last time the floor got swept and scrubbed?_  Bumblebee asked, giving him a worried look. Ratchet was watching him closely as well. First Aid seized on the suggestion with relief. Of course! He tried to activate the vacuum unit, but couldn’t get the sequence to work. He let his helm thunk against the wall in something like despair.   
  
“What’s wrong with me?” he asked, very near tears. What if someone needed repairs? What good would he be like this? Was he dying? He wasn’t ready to go, not yet...Bumblebee said something, put a hand on his shoulder, but First Aid pushed away from the cabinet and paced, unable to stand still.   
  
“They’re here,” he heard Ratchet say to Bumblebee, without understanding any of it. “Silverbolt says they’re not entirely rational, and recommends not getting in their way. I’m half-tempted to put the whole lot of them in stasis together and let their sparks get over the worst of the shock before I wake them up.”  
  
First Aid’s spark gave a sharp throb of something that felt, unfathomably, like wild, elated joy, and that frightened him more than anything else so far. He went into the storage closet and started blindly going through drawers and supplies. Something thumped loudly against the wall, the one that ran along the corridor, and First Aid flattened himself against the cabinets as if holding them up, or as if they were holding him up.  
  
Someone shouted “Hot Spot, door!” at the entrance of the medbay, and the thumping ceased. Someone was shouting his name, and a large blue and black fire truck was at the entrance to the storage closet, and as he met those red optics First Aid backed away into a corner, sliding down into a heap onto the floor as his knee articulations gave out, his own optics wide. Several more mechs wedged behind the first, helo, cycleformer, scout.  
  
“Oh. Hi guys,” First Aid said. “I thought I was going crazy, but you’re really here, aren’t you.” First Aid’s voice was light and conversational, as if he were asking Ratchet if he’d had a pleasant off-shift instead of speaking to his back-from-the-dead brothers for the first time in uncounted vorns. Only someone who knew him very well would recognize it as the sound of First Aid’s spark trying to rip itself into pieces.


	35. Reunion - part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of the Nanonsipmos I'm afraid - but I might post a few random snippets as the inspiration strikes me.
> 
> Warning for a bit of self-harm in this one.

“Aid,” the pale blue-and-black fire truck said in a hoarse, strangled voice, moving towards him. He froze, though, as First Aid slid away from them, pressing himself against the storage units, vent rate increasing.  
  
The black-and-white scout grabbed the other, voice shaking. “Slow down, he can’t...you’ve got to...Hot Spot, he’ll just fight us right now...please.” The fire truck sank to his knees with an anguished half sob, optics locked on First Aid, watching as almost imperceptible tremors shook his armor. First Aid’s faceplates were no longer calm, but locked in a strange, intense stillness of expression.   
  
The helo model struggled towards him but the cycleformer held him back, although they were both weeping. “Shhh, Blades...easy. Don’t freak him out.”   
  
“Aid!” the helo shouted, breaking free. First Aid scrambled away as if Decepticons were after him, overturning containers of supplies, then turned like a trapped turbofox, crouched as if to run. The helo let out a cry of despair, curling in on himself, and the other three mechs moved to support him. They all clutched one another in a desperate tangle in the doorway.   
  
“Move. So he...can go,” the cycleformer spoke, forcing out each word.   
  
“What…?” protested the scout model faintly, but the fire truck nodded jerkily and half-shoved half-dragged the other three over to the side, leaving First Aid an unobstructed path to the door. Aid stood, wavering unsteadily. As he made his way slowly towards the door he almost overbalanced and the fire truck made a convulsive movement as if to catch him, but froze again as Aid twitched violently away from them, tripping over scattered supplies until he caught himself on a shelf, optics still locked on the other four. The helo gave a wordless cry of frustration and beat his head twice against the back of the large fire truck, hands clenched in fists on the pale blue armor.   
  
After a long moment First Aid moved away from the supporting shelf and stepped sideways towards the door, facing them the whole time, his engine giving a faint, high-pitched whine as it strained in overdrive. Ratchet met him at the door, and First Aid gripped the medic by the arms, staring blankly.  
  
“Primus, Aid,” Ratchet muttered, running a quick scan. “Your systems...by all rights you should be in involuntary stasis lock.”   
  
“Ratchet,” First Aid said softly, his optics focusing on Ratchet’s face. He spoke each word slowly and distinctly, as if it were the most important thing in the world. “I know them.”   
  
“Yes, yes you do,” Ratchet replied, smiling, although fluid was gathering in his optics. “Why don’t you stick around and get to know them again?”   
  
A large, trembling hand touched him cautiously on his backplates. First Aid shuttered his optics but made no other response. After a another few moments he let his hands drop from Ratchet’s arms and heaved an uneven, hitching vent, turning into the embrace of the other with his optics still shuttered. Unresisting, he was slowly lifted, balanced carefully in the other's arms and carried back into the storage closet. When First Aid unshuttered his optics again he was cradled in the lap of the fire truck as he sat against the wall, the other three pressed closed on all sides, quiet and passive, as if they had all absorbed his stillness.   
  
They sat that way for a long time, First Aid blinking occasionally at the pale blue chestplates in front of him. I know them, he thought again, but at the thought a shudder gripped him, a rising wave of emotion crashed and subsided against the wall he had built against it. It made him clench and grit his dental plates together, press his helm against the armor in front of him before relaxing again. Again, with every attempt to let himself remember, the wave struck, higher and harder this time before subsiding.  
  
First Aid made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a huff of exasperation, and a hand stroked gently down his back plates, tracing the old scars there, lingering on the new ones. Stubbornly he persevered, again, and yet again, each wave retreating only to rebound greater than before.  
  
First Aid pushed his helm desperately against a wide shoulder, his engine made a soft, muffled grinding sound, stressed to the limit. He was being crushed from within between his own pain and the wall he’d built around it to keep himself sane, higher stronger thicker over the vorns, only now it wouldn’t come down. With a frustrated almost-growl he turned his face to where his hand was locked in a death grip on the other’s armor and bit down on it. Straight through the thin outer plating, tiny sparks flew as he bit down even further. He could feel the delicate circuitry crunch, the taste of his own energon flooded his mouth. There, he thought in satisfaction. There. Pain struck, merciless and inevitable, shattering the wall as his frame locked in anguish.   
  
//Hang on// one of them or all of them thought //hang on, here we go//  
  


~~~

  
  
//Are we in the Matrix?// the thought came from somewhere, a long time later, wandering and weary, but content.   
  
//I hope not, after all of that// someone else thought, laughing.   
  
//Oh Aid, First Aid// Some of them, all of them, were weeping, but in this place where they were there was nothing but joy. First Aid’s spark throbbed sweetly and easily in time with it.   
  
//Nothing hurts// he thought a little wonderingly. //Nothing hurts at all//   
  
//We’re glad. We’re so glad to have you with us oh Aid it’s been so long, so long without you, we MISSED you First Aid, First Aid// They thought his name over and over, it ran through all of their minds like a song. Their warm pile shifted a little, snuggling in closer, but First Aid hissed air through his vents as something  _did_  hurt. There were dismayed thoughts and sounds, and someone called hoarsely for Ratchet.   
  
First Aid blinked, onlining his optics to Ratchet’s worried face. “Aid, what the slag happened?” He tried to answer, but his vocalizer refused to function, something catching and glitching in his throat.   
  
“We think...we think he did it to  _himself,_ ” the fire truck answered for him instead, voice still catching with sobs. Ratchet, muttering, offlined First Aid’s pain sensors from his shoulder down and cleansed and wrapped his hand in circuit gell and flex bandages.   
  
“There,” Ratchet said, running a hand over First Aid’s helm. “That should hold you for now; you really did a number on it though. You’re not going to pull any more stunts like that, are you?” he asked, looking with concern into First Aid’s optics. First Aid shook his helm.   
  
//Why can’t I talk?// he wondered.  
  
//You did a lot of yelling//  
  
//I did?//  
  
//Yeah, we all kind of did. It’s ok now though//  
  
It was all ok. Everything was ok. He was very tired. First Aid blinked and smiled sleepily up at Ratchet, and that seemed to reassure the other medic.  
  
“Rest. Heal, all of you,” he told them. First Aid sighed deeply, feeling everything relax, all the way to his struts, his frame wrapped in warmth and love on every side, up and down and all around. All. Together. Whole. First Aid frowned, fighting his own systems. He didn’t want to recharge, to lose even one moment. What if…  
  
The others didn’t give him time to let that thought take full form. //Rest and never fear, not ever. We will be here, always, to the end of the universe and the end of time and all the way back again. We promise. Rest//  
  
They snuggled close, close, and closer, careful of Aid’s injured hand which they tucked tenderly under his chinplates. Spark-whole, souls united at long last, they let recharge take them.


	36. Reunion - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spring doesn't leave a lot of time for writing, but managed a bonus March snippet. Continuing from right where we left off in the previous snippet:

First Aid woke up singing. His helm was pressed close to the fire truck - one of them was singing the hymn of Great Rejoicing to Primus and one of them was singing a corny little love song, and the songs were somehow one and the same. The music was more felt through the bond than heard, their voices still worn and raspy. First Aid had a vague feeling that his gestalt commander had never used to sing like that but...then again, it had been a long time. To say the least.

The neural block was beginning to wear off, and First Aid’s damaged hand throbbed dully, but not enough to merit doing anything about it. There was nothing he wanted more in the universe than to just rest there forever, in the tangle of his brothers. He wrapped arms around as much of the others as he could as they murmured and hugged him back. What a long, strange journey they had had! First Aid was still processing it, just as they were processing all the vorns of his time without them.

//So hard, you hurt so much, but you never gave up// They all thought sympathy at one another, mourning the pain, sharing admiration and comfort. First Aid extracted himself from his brothers somewhat, just enough so that he could online his visor and really  _look_  at them for the first time, trace their faceplates with his uninjured hand. 

“What...” His overstrained vocalizer clicked and reset a few times. “What are your names?” he whispered.

They stared back at him, expressions stricken, realization dawning. First Aid shook his head a little. “I had...I had to leave everything behind, even your names.” A brief impression, sense memory, whirled through all of their minds for a moment: First Aid tenderly writing their name-glyphs in a layer of silicon dust, wind erasing them in a glittering swirl. First Aid’s spark breaking with love, connected to every nameless particle in the entire universe as they danced away.

“Even the dust. Only you would love a particle,” said the cycleformer, twining their hands together. First Aid pressed his helm to the other’s, looking deeply into the smiling yellow-gold optics as they had done since they were sparklings, he remembered that now, so clearly! “Groove,” the other one whispered. “I’m Groove.” 

“Groove,” First Aid repeated, with a laugh-sob, helpless joy flooding the gestalt bond, and then they were all weeping again. 

“This is going to take a while,” the fire truck said, much later, laughing and rubbing at the optic fluid on his faceplates. He rolled over on his back and First Aid perched on his chestplates, looking down at him expectantly. “Hot Spot,” he said, smiling up at his brother. 

First Aid was laughing and crying too much to repeat it for awhile, but eventually he got his vocalizer back and said his gestalt leader’s name over and over. He didn’t remember falling back into recharge. 

The pain of his injured hand woke him again only a half joor later. Ratchet was already there. “Figured this would be wearing off about now.” First Aid tensed and gritted his dentals, determinedly fighting the instinct to pull away as Ratchet gently extracted his hand from where he was coiled protectively around it and renewed the neural block. Hot Spot stroked his helm soothingly and First Aid relaxed as the pain eased, then disappeared. 

“Do you want to move somewhere a little more comfortable than the storage closet?” Ratchet asked them wryly, as he began removing protective bandages and examining the ragged edges of the injury. They all looked at one another and shrugged. 

“We’re good, Ratchet,” Hot Spot said. “I don’t think any of us feel like moving just yet, unless we’re in the way?” 

Ratchet shook his helm. “This will be easier to fix in the main medbay, once you can let go of him for half a klik,” he said, wrapping up Aid’s hand again, “but there’s no rush. I leave the storage organization to Aid, anyway.” 

“The supplies!” First Aid moved as if to get up and start cleaning the containers he’d knocked over and scattered in his earlier panic.

There was a chorus of protests from his brothers, and a “don’t you dare” complete with Glare of Doom from Ratchet, and First Aid subsided reluctantly. 

“Bumblebee says he’s happy to swing by and take care of it as soon as he’s off duty. He knows these shelves almost as well as you do, so chill your thrusters.” 

A small six-wheeled mech in alt mode rolled up to Ratchet’s legs and warbled in agreement, and transformed into a knee-high, blue-opticked little mech. He clambered on to First Aid, beeping and patting him in concern. Wheeljack followed behind him carrying cubes of energon. ”Wasn’t sure if you were up for visitors just yet, kiddos, but Roller was getting worried.” 

“We’re all a little worried,” Silverbolt said, leaning on the door frame to the storage closet and nodding to his fellow gestalt commander. Hot Spot gave him a grateful smile and salute. “Everyone can’t wait to see you all again, but we’ll live,” he added, grinning. “I’ll go sit on Sideswipe and Sunstreaker before they try to tunnel in from underneath.” 

“Appreciate it,” Ratchet waved a hand in Silverbolt’s direction. 

“I’m ok, bitlet,” First Aid reassured the little mech, his voice still somewhat raspy. He wrapped his free arm around Roller and Roller snuggled in, beeping a curious greeting to the other four. “These are my brothers,” First Aid said. “Groove, and...and Hot Spot,” he introduced them, his voice wavering just a little, “and this is…” The helo smiled at him and lifted a hand to touch his face.

“You were the first to know my name, when we were activated, do you remember?” the helo asked a little wistfully. 

First Aid’s voice softened in wonder as the name rose easily to the top of his processor. “This is  _Blades_. Of  _course_  you are, oh how could I ever have forgotten?” 

“And me?” the scout model asked, his blue optics glowing brightly.

“Streetwise!”

The Protectobots clung to one another again, managing it with almost all laughing with very little weeping this time. Ratchet moved prudently out of the way, and Roller made a small sound of alarm as he was engulfed in the Protectobot pile. “Sorry, Roller. Sorry,” First Aid said, laughing and nudging Roller up to the top where he wouldn’t be mushed. Roller patted the top of First Aid’s helm with a long-suffering sigh and then pointed firmly to Wheeljack and the tray of energon. 

A little bit later Hot Spot had to rescue First Aid’s cube before he dropped it, as he nodded off into recharge before it was even half finished. 

“Syncing up takes a lot of energy, and I think this is the first true recharge he’s had since he lost you,” Wheeljack said, as he took First Aid’s unfinished cube from Hot Spot. The rest of the Protectobots were looking a little droopy as well, optics dimming. “When we got Skydive and Air Raid back after they were captured that time, the Aerialbots recharged for an entire three orns straight. You’ve still got a lot of catching up to do.” 

“We’ll have to meet all his new friends,” Hot Spot said, smiling and patting Roller, who had determinedly wedged himself in between First Aid and Blades. Roller gave him a friendly beep, and Streetwise beeped back in imitation, which got a giggle. 

“He’s certainly made some interesting ones,” Wheeljack chuckled. 

“We’ll have to share him more, now, I suppose,” Groove murmured sleepily, already half into recharge. “Or find some really big quarters so all the Aerialbots...and the...twins? And everyone can get...their fair share…” His voice trailed off as he dropped into recharge.

Hot Spot took a deep cycle of air to fend off recharge a few more kliks. “You’re welcome to join us, Wheeljack, Ratchet,” he said, tilting his helm invitingly.

“You know…” Wheeljack said, his vocal indicators softening to a considering blue. “If there’s space…” 

Ratchet snorted at him, but he was smiling. “Go ahead. You’re well overdue for some recharge, anyway. I’ll keep an optic on the rest of the yahoos.” 

Blades patted the spot next to him, and Wheeljack added himself to the pile. “C’mere, you,” he told Blades, wrapping an arm around him and snuggling in. “Oh, how I’ve missed you guys,” he sighed. Hot Spot somehow managed to find enough arm to wrap around Wheeljack, too, and they all powered down together.


	37. Street Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get back in the writing swing, so attempting to write a snippet a week.

Three orns. It was the longest continuous span they’d spent as Defensor, with little rest and no recharge. Even Hot Spot looked weary. Streetwise rubbed at his helm dazedly. “Who am I, again?” 

“Street Spot,” Groove murmured into his neck, from where he was slumped against his brother. “Or Hot Aid.” 

They were not quite too weary to laugh, although it was more internal than external, a wave of snickering warmth through the gestalt bond. Blades snorted and found energy to lift one arm and poke Groove in the side. 

“C’mere, Groovey Blade, c’mere Wise Aid,” Hot Spot said, as he snagged and rolled various brothers until he had them tucked mostly beneath him, a reversal of their usual method of piling on top of their gestalt commander for recharge. Silent laughter tumbled through their bond again as they were pleasantly pinned. First Aid’s systems were already nearly in recharge, but he frowned a little at the slight groaning sounds Hot Spot’s hydraulics had made while rearranging his brothers, and his visor flickered as he tried to summon up energy to do a scan. Hot Spot nuzzled their helms together and thought reassurance at him, backed up by Groove and Streetwise and Blades. First Aid subsided with an amused huff and a promise that everyone was getting a thorough check over. Later. 

//Later// Hot Spot agreed. He watched in satisfaction as his team powered down to recharge. Later would be later, but now there was only now, and warm together, and sweet rest. Blades turned on an optic to check on him, not quite as in recharge as he had seemed, and Hot Spot grinned and sighed and snuggled them all closer, and powered down at last.


	38. Sunstreaker has an issue with Bumblebee's paintjob

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of my somewhat cracky time-travelling Bumblebee headcanon (which I mostly blame on the [Steve Jablonsky soundtrack song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8foTMjFqIk) for him, and trying to make sense of Bayverse 07 Bee). If I were writing for serious business, I would probably cut all of this out as being too confusing and cluttering up plotlines and all, but since I'm not and it's what my brain wants to do, I'm indulging it :) Go wild, little neurons.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Sunstreaker muttered, changing course suddenly to stalk towards Bumblebee. Bumblebee’s arm, half lifted in the beginnings of a friendly wave of greeting, dropped again as he caught sight of Sunstreaker’s grim expression. Bumblebee glanced questioningly at Sideswipe before returning hs gaze to his looming yellow brother, and the smaller mech shifted his stance a little in a way Sideswipe thought he recognized. Deceptively relaxed, ready to move in any direction. It looked remarkably like Jazz’s patented “what, me? Dangerous?” pose (right before you found yourself on the ground with a vibroblade held to your most vital energon lines),

//Um, bro? I really don’t think you should mess with this guy. We really don’t know much about him// The strange mech First Aid had rescued seemed harmless enough, quietly helping out in the medbay as he gained strength, and then in the last orn he’d begun exploring the base (under Red Alert’s watchful gaze) and getting to know its inhabitants. In just that short span of time it seemed he’d made friends with everyone. With his open friendly manner and earnest desire to be of help, he reminded Sideswipe of a newbuild, but watching him now Sideswipe was reminded that despite those bright, curious optics, Bumblebee was no freshly onlined sparkling. He was very likely older than any of them, with an unknown history and background. 

//Not to mention he’s Aid’s special project.// After he’d spent over a vorn bringing Bumblebee out of his ancient deep-stasis and back to full function, against all odds, First Aid was unlikely to take kindly to Sunstreaker picking a fight with his patient. //You don’t want to make First Aid give you The Look, do you?//

Not even the dire threat of First Aid’s much gentler but still extremely effective version of a Ratchet-scolding slowed Sunstreaker’s advance. 

“How long,” Sunstreaker growled, “are you going to go around like that?” 

Bumblebee looked puzzled. “Around like what?” he said in his deep, somewhat oddly-accented voice. 

“That,” Sunstreaker said, pointing one digit emphatically at Bumblebee’s torso, lightly armored in basic, protoform-gray. Bumblebee looked down at himself, still puzzled.

“You mean the color?” Sideswipe translated helpfully for his brother. 

“The color,” Sunstreaker crossed his arms and glared at the offending armor. “Yeah. That.” 

//Bro, it’s none of our business. Besides, maybe his color nanites aren’t even reactivated yet; lay off the poor guy//

Sideswipe was prepared for reactions ranging from fear to matching bluster (both admittedly perfectly reasonable, where Sunstreaker was concerned, although it was rare for him to actually be the instigator like this. What the heck? Sunny was particular about his own armor, but didn’t generally show an interest in anyone else’s..), but Bumblebee was regarding the yellow frontliner with helm slightly tilted, optics squinted in a small, considering smile that Sideswipe suspected he’d picked up from First Aid. 

“Really bothers you, does it?” 

“It’s…,” Sunstreaker actually appeared to be thinking about it. “Wrong,” he finally said, succinctly. 

“Hm,” Bumblebee’s gaze grew inward for a moment, and a pale wash of color descended over his armor, helm to pedes, brightening and solidifying into a deep golden yellow. Precisely Sunstreaker’s own color. 

“No,” Sunstreaker said flatly. 

Sideswipe braced again for the confrontation,not sure which one he was planning to save, but Bumblebee merely arched an optic ridge and adjusted the color by several shades, to a much lighter but still vivid yellow hue, then adopted a dramatic fighting pose, belied by the cocky grin. 

“Better?” Bumblebee asked, grin morphing into a hopeful look at Sunstreaker that was...kind of adorable, actually. Sunstreaker snorted in seeming disdain, but Sideswipe felt the amusement trickling through their bond.

“That means yes,” Sideswipe informed the now-yellow scout model. 

“Ah, I see now,” Bumblebee said, nodding wisely. Was that a hint of a wicked twinkle in those innocently-wide blue optics? “He’s smiling.”

Sunstreaker snorted again and, quite deliberately, scowled harder. Wait...was Bumblebee actually _teasing_ Sunstreaker? And was Sunstreaker actually _playing along with it?_ Sideswipe shook his helm. Well would wonders never cease. An idea struck him, triggered by the memory of Bumblebee’s initial battle-ready stance and a vague sense of sympathy for the mech. He seemed to be fitting right in, but it had to be disorienting to wake up with no accessible memories of your former life or who you were.

“Hey, Bee. Think fast!” Sideswipe leapt.

Bumblebee let out a startled “Eep!” but as Sideswipe had suspected and hoped, soon got into the spirit of the impromptu wrestling match. The other mech’s moves were clumsy and uncoordinated at first; Sideswipe could have pinned him within kliks, but he deliberately held back, wanting to see what the new guy had under his hood. 

Sunstreaker leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with a critical optic. “Go for his knee articulations,” he suggested to Bumblebee. 

“Hey!” Sideswipe squawked. “Whose side are you on?” 

Bumblebee grinned and went for the suggested weakness, and Sideswipe had to quit vocalizing and pay attention. The other mech was smaller, and his movements still uncoordinated, but he was light and fast and every now and then managed to pull a maneuver that forced Sideswipe to pull out all the stops. Frame memory. He’d been right, this guy was rusty as Pit, but he definitely had potential. A flash of white out of the corner of his optic distracted him, and Sideswipe suddenly found himself neatly flipped and slammed to the ground. 

When his visual feed fritzed back into focus, it was to see First Aid’s red-and-white helm leaning over him, optics concerned behind the visor. 

“Sideswipe, what are you doing to my patient?”

“What am I doing to _him_?” Sideswipe protested, sitting up and rubbing the back of his helm. He took Bumblebee’s slightly apologetic offered hand up, deliberately putting all his weight behind it to make the other mech stagger and then adding a friendly cuff of his shoulder to show there were no hard feelings.

“Your nanites seem to have fully recolonized.” First Aid was checking over Bumblebee’s new paint job. “I like it, it suits you,” he said, patting the bright yellow armor. 

Bumblebee bounced on his pedes a little, excitedly. “I know how to fight, did you see?" Bumblebee said, sounding surprised and pleased with himself all at once. "Can we do that some more?”

“It’s not going to hurt him, is it?” Sideswipe asked in belated concern. Mech had just woken up from a bazillion vorn old stasis, after all. 

“Yes, I did see, and those were some sweet moves, as Jazz would say,” First Aid said, smiling fondly and patting Bumblebee’s armor again. ““And I'm not surprised. We knew you were battle-forged. Some light sparring would actually be good to get your systems back in shape, as long as you don’t overdo it.” He gave Sideswipe and Sunstreaker meaningful looks. 

“Naw, don’t worry,” Sideswipe waved a reassuring hand. “Sunny and me, we used to train new recruits all the time.” 

Sunstreaker gave him a funny-sad look at that. //That wasn’t us, bro.//

Sideswipe blinked, momentarily disconcerted, but covered it up by giving Bumblebee a friendly shove. (He could’ve _sworn_ they had…) Missing memories. Or extra ones. Maybe he had more in common with Bumblebee than he’d realized. 

“You’ll be in good hands with us, Bee.”


	39. Story time for Roller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's not Saturday yet, but I don't think anyone will mind if I post this early ^^

He was the leader of the Autobots, Optimus Prime reminded himself. Bearer of the Matrix, last of the true Primes. He had faced Megatron in battle, walked the edge of deactivation and come back from the brink more times now than he could remember. His endurance was strong, surely he could stand firm now.

He crossed his arms and gathered his will. “Roller, it is time for you to recharge.”

The sparkling on his desk ignored him, pushing and tugging determinedly on a datapad that was larger than he was until it bumped up against Optimus’s hand. 

“Zee bweep?” the tiny mech asked hopefully, peering up with bright blue optics. Roller’s color nanites had finally begun to mature in the last orn. The deep blue starting to fill in the edges of his plating and outlining the small helm perfectly matched Optimus’s own, although the still-uncolonized silver areas gave Roller an adorably scruffy look. Optimus sighed as he felt his spark melt into a puddle of helpless surrender.

 _”One_ more story,” he rumbled, trying to look stern and completely failing. “And then recharge.” 

Roller squeaked happily and pulled himself onto Optimus’s arm, settling himself comfortably into the crook Optimus made for him with his elbow. Optimus unspooled a specially adapted cable from his forearm and patched into Roller’s systems, adding him as a peripheral to his own firewalls and antivirus programs, and then picked up the datapad in his other hand. Roller snuggled himself more deeply in his elbow-nook, and Optimus leaned back in his chair. The Matrix thrummed happily at him, as always when Roller was near.

“Long ago, when the first of the Primes were no longer young, but yet walked our planet, all mechanisms enjoyed a golden peace. But even in this time” --Optimus lowered his voice dramatically, and Roller squeaked and squirmed in anticipation-- “a hidden evil lurked.” 

This particular tale was in no way appropriate for encouraging recharge, Optimus thought, smiling down at the completely transfixed sparkling, but it was Roller’s favorite. He pinged First Aid with Roller’s current energy levels, and received confirmation that the sparkling was fine, even if he was exceeding his operational limits a little. First Aid and Ratchet never seemed to have any trouble getting Roller to recharge; he’d have to find out what the secret was. 

“Cybertron’s depths held many secrets, both wondrous and horrible, but Chisel the miner felt no fear, as she delved deep and ever deeper. Over the ages she searched for precious metals and rare gems which she gathered for Solus Prime and her mighty forge, and never once did her spark quail. Until now.” 

Roller made a sympathetic noise and patted the datapad. Optimus chuckled and returned to the story.

“A cold wind blew from the dark cavern before her, smelling of rust and corrosion and other nameless things…”

…

“Leaking energon from her damaged legs, Chisel used the last of her power reserves to drill into the layers of the ceiling, destabilizing it until it would collapse at the slightest vibration.”

“Bwee zeep?”  
“Yes, First Aid would have fixed her legs if he’d been there,” Optimus nodded gravely. 

“Wee zee breep?“

Optimus laughed. “And yes, I’m sure Ratchet would have had a few things to say about Chisel taking on a dragonformer all by herself, and _then_ he would have fixed her legs, you’re right. Let’s see, where were we? Ah. ‘Come for me, Ma-Grrr!’ Chisel cried. ‘Demon of the depths, destroyer of sparks, I do not fear you! Come and meet your doom!” 

…

“...together Chisel and Solus Prime smote the dragonformer with her Forge, until Ma-Grrr slunk back into the depths, sorely damaged. Ma-Grrr was not seen again for millennia, until the great battle with Unicron, when she and her creation Hun-Grrr reemerged from the Pit in which they dwelt.” Roller’s optics were dimming at last, and Optimus softened his voice. 

“Badly damaged herself, Solus Prime knelt to take up the smoking, unconscious frame of her valiant friend. As she did so a bright glint caught her eye. There in the molten ruins of their battle lay one of Ma-Grrr’s Great Fangs.” Ever so softly, Optimus finished the tale as Roller’s optics flickered and his ventilations slowed and deepened. “Though the acid of the Fang burned her hand further, Solus Prime carried it with her, with Chisel balanced on her shoulder, all the way on the long and treacherous journey to the surface. There the Great Fang was reforged to become the bright and deadly edge of the Star Saber,” Optimus whispered softly, “the blade of blades, able to snuff out stars and crumble planets to dust.”

On that less-than-soothing note, Roller settled into full recharge at last. Optimus powered off the datapad and picked up one from the much more mundane stack of supply reports on his desk, Roller a softly purring warmth in the crook of his elbow articulation.

….

“Teep?”

Optimus sighed and (not very regretfully) put down the supply reports.

“Long, long ago, there lived a cohort of kind and humble metal-weavers, who could weave the softest polishing clothes and finest formal capes, and sew wondrous tapestries of every color. Vector Sigma had granted them a newspark, and over the vorns young Ravel developed from a bright and curious sparkling into a weaver of no small talent himself, and his creators and guardians loved him very much. One fine cycle, however, he returned from the market with his spools of fine platinum wire to find his creators gone, their tools and weaving looms standing as though they’d disappeared in the midst of their work…”


	40. First Aid's new medical technique

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place several vorns after the events in "Still Waters"

"He's rebooting," First Aid said, and per medbay procedure, Ratchet came over to check the area for anything pointy or dangerous and remain on standby. Sunstreaker had gone down with battle protocols in full throttle, and he was likely to online the same way. A disoriented frontliner in battle mode was nothing to be trifled with, even with his weapons deactivated. They could restrain him, of course, or offline Sunstreaker's motor control, but First Aid had his own preferred method of keeping the twins out of danger while they woke up, despite the one time it had gone badly wrong.

"It still makes me nervous when you do this," Ratchet muttered.

First Aid gave him a quick, reassuring smile, but most of his attention was focused on Sunstreaker. The yellow frontliner was frowning, engine shifting into higher gear. 

"Hm," First Aid said, a thoughtful sound, his lip components pressed together as he considered something. He put one hand on the side of Sunstreaker's faceplates, and then to Ratchet's surprise leaned in and kissed the frontliner gently on the lips. 

"Sunstreaker," First Aid pulled back slightly to say, and then kissed him again. Sunstreaker drew air in sharply through his intakes and he sat up suddenly, arms gripping First Aid to him, his faceplates pressed against the medic's chest. 

"Good morning," First Aid said calmly, hands caressing the back of Sunstreaker's helm as the frontliner's engine cycled back down and his intake rate slowed. 

"Aid?" 

"Yep. Medbay. Sideswipe's in stasis so Ratchet can re-attach his arm, but he's going to be fine. You've lost a lot of energon and we had to replace your fuel pump, but you're going to be fine, too. Want to lie back down?"

"Not really," Sunstreaker mumbled into First Aid's chest. "This is good." They stayed like that a few more minutes, First Aid gently rubbing Sunstreaker's backplates, until he sighed and cycled back into recharge and First Aid lowered him back to the berth. 

Ratchet looked up from the next berth where he had gone back to continue repairs on Sideswipe's arm. "That's a technique I haven't seen before," he said, trying not to grin too hard. He'd rather suspected developments of this sort between the two, but it was nice to have it confirmed. 

First Aid gave him an impish, bright-opticked smile. "You could see if it works on Sideswipe," he suggested, nodding in their direction.

"Gah!"


	41. Groove on one leg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realized I never got around to cross-posting several of my older snippets from Livejournal! I've imported to dreamwidth, but gonna try to get most of them here that haven't been already posted as parts of other fics.

_I see him!_    
  
Something didn’t look right. Skydive angled down sharply, landing in front of the Protectobot and unfolding out of alt mode. What he saw made his spark stutter in horror.  
  
“Groove! Sweet Primus, what did they do to you?” Someone was going to pay for this, big time. No one damaged their younger brothers without certain…repercussions.  
  
Groove would have waved his arms reassuringly, except he had no arms anymore to wave. “Skydive, hey, relax. It’s not as bad as it looks. First Aid took them off, he was careful.”   
  
“ _First Aid_  did this?”  
  
“Yep,” Groove said cheerfully, hopping closer on his one remaining leg. “It was the only way I was going to fit through that tunnel.” 


	42. First Aid needs more practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrench-throwing Ratchet is I believe more fanon than canon, but it's one of the first things I encountered as a baby fic writer, so it kind of got incorporated ;)

“Aw, c’mon Aid, just give it a try! I’ll stand completely still, I promise.” Streetwise handed his brother the wrench and then gave him his best, hopeful, bumblepuppy expression.   
  
First Aid laughed but shook his head. “Ratchet knows exactly how to do it so it triggers a reset without damage, Streets. If I hit the wrong place or too hard I could really hurt you.”   
  
“But you gotta learn some time, right? And what better time than now, when you’re stuck on berth rest for who knows how long. You said you were bored. Just throw it sort of soft at first.” Streetwise placed himself within easy wrench-throwing distance and angled his helm invitingly, turning up the puppy optics a few more degrees.   
  
“Hm.” First Aid giggled at his brother’s pleading look, but shook his head. “I think I should practice on a non-living target to begin with. How about if I can hit the back of the couch.” First Aid hefted the wrench and stuck his glossa out slightly between his lip plates in concentration as he took aim.   
  
“Whoa!” Hot Spot ducked as something flew over his head and into the hallway as he entered their quarters.   
  
“Sorry, Hot Spot!” First Aid called from his berth. “I was aiming for the couch.”   
  
“Ah. I see.” Hot Spot retrieved the wrench from the floor, poked Streetwise, who was snickering uncontrollably, and then went over to snuggle First Aid on his berth. Whatever they were up to, he was just happy to see Aid looking a little more bright-opticked. “Isn’t the couch over that way?”   
  
First Aid nodded and sighed ruefully, though he was smiling still. “Streets, why don’t you lock the door, and then get behind me where it’s safe. I think I’ve got a  _lot_  more practicing to do before I can throw wrenches in a medical capacity.”


	43. not a good sign

_Aid. I need you here now._  

Blades’ voice through the comm signal was tight and controlled. Too calm.   
  
 _On my way._  

First Aid knew Blades wouldn’t have called him away from the plague virus patients without good reason. 

_W_ _hat’s up?_   
  
_Hot Spot is sitting down._


	44. Hot Spot and future!P-bots 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bit from space-time travelling P-bots

“I don’t know if I can let him go,” the other First Aid said, a little sobbing catch in his voice even as he laughed at himself. “He’s no more than a sparkling, Hot Spot.”   
  
Hot Spot clung tightly, trembling, not sure if he could let go either. It was a strange sort of comfort-mingled agony, this First Aid, filling all the empty places in his soul with his warm solid presence, and yet… it wasn’t  _his_  First Aid. The other Hot Spot was even stranger yet, giving them space in the bond with no resentment that Hot Spot could detect, an echoing of empathetic grief, utter and complete understanding. He met the red optics over First Aid’s shoulder. They were his own optics, he knew that in his processor, but never could he imagine himself so ancient, so wise.


	45. Ancient!Bee wakes up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep feeling like I posted this one already, but I couldn't find it anywhere - apologies if it's a duplicate

First Aid linked in to the ancient mech’s systems, readouts familiar and unchanged. Unrecoverable processor error. Reboot failed. He puzzled again over the chronometer reading: timed out completely. Either the mech was older than the universe, or something had altered the quantum timekeeping mechanisms of the chronometer itself. Both seemed equally unlikely. “Someone took good care of you,” he murmured, finding the place where an old injury, protoform deep, had healed seamlessly, visible now only to his scanners. From some forgotten war, most likely, before the Golden Age of Cybertron. Though stripped to basic, cometary form, the mech had multiple weapons attachments, battle scarring on his frame. He had not come from a time of peace.  
  
After so long with no response, there was really no hope, he knew that. Ratchet said to trust his instincts, that if he didn’t want to give up there was likely good reason, pointing to Roller as evidence. First Aid suspected Ratchet was only being kind, and careful with him as everyone was these days, but he was grateful nonetheless. There was no good reason for it, but somehow the thought of giving up, returning this unknown mech to cold stasis gripped his spark with despair.   
  
“Although maybe it would be the kinder thing to do,” he told the still form, touching the cold, gray helm sadly. “Cybertron now is so different, and everyone you ever knew must be long gone.” The vital signs notched up incrementally, almost as if in response to the sound of his voice. He knew better than to ascribe awareness to that dim-burning lifespark, and yet….  
  
Not really thinking too hard about it, First Aid rested a hand on the cold gray helm and began to sing quietly, one of Wheeljack’s old lullabies. The spark glimmered and brightened, vitals cycling higher in response. Carefully, delicately feeding the merest trickle of energy directly to the long-stagnant processor, he initiated another reboot cycle. Systems revved suddenly in to high gear, the spark flaring into brightness on the monitors, the processor cycled up, stalled for a moment, faltered…and caught! First Aid held his intakes, not daring to breathe, holding the link and energy feeds steady as one by one, levels of function and consciousness lit up like new-formed stars.   
  
After a breem or so of humming equilibrium a simple awareness stirred, groping weak but seeking across the link. It was a process First Aid remembered well from when Roller had been a newspark; the mech was seeking a designation. A total reboot then, the memories in the processor no longer accessible although even through the medical link he could feel the spark burning bright, waking to innocent wonder as it explored, gentle and fearless through the outer layers of First Aid’s processor. First Aid reached cautiously back; there were defenses still in place, and firewalls, as were only to be expected in an adult mech from whatever era, but they lay open to First Aid in an act of total trust that made him blink. One hand twitched, jerky and uncoordinated as the processor exerted control over its frame for the first time in countless vorns. First Aid twined it with his own, and blue optics lit faintly, slowly focusing on his face. The mech continued to download basic vocabulary and language files apace, searching and storing easily despite the corrupted memory files. A note of delighted accomplishment beamed through the link as the mech settled on a designation at last.  
  
“Bumblebee it is.” The blue optics glowed brighter, smiling up at him. First Aid felt his spark give a leap of pure joy. “Welcome back.”


	46. First shots

“There you go,” Wheeljack finished uploading the final set of antiviral programs and unlinked from Groove. “All done. It will take awhile for your systems to read and incorporate the new programming into your firewalls, and you’ll all probably feel like recharging more than normal the next few days, especially First Aid.” As a future medic, First Aid’s firewalls would need to be much more sophisticated than the average mechanism, and his first set of antiviral upgrades had contained an order of magnitude more data than his brothers'. He was already starting to look rather droopy, leaning up against Hot Spot.   
  
“Mrrgg?” First Aid asked, blinking at him woozily. Wheeljack laughed, rescuing the datapad First Aid still had clutched in one hand before he dropped it.   
  
“Go take a nap, kiddo. Don’t worry about the next set of lessons.” He probably should have done this in their quarters, though Hot Spot, at least, looked like he still had enough energy to herd his team safely there. Wheeljack grinned as he watched the five Protectobots make their way out of the medbay, Groove and Streetwise and Blades plodding in somewhat aimless fashion out the door with Hot Spot occasionally nudging one or another of them from behind in the right direction, First Aid still blinking at him sleepily over Hot Spot’s shoulder. Nothing kept Hot Spot down for long, not even programming upgrades. 


	47. Welcome to the Autobots

“Did you mean that, what you said? About us being free to choose?” Hot Spot asked, and Optimus nodded. “Well, then, we’re choosing.”  
  
All five of them were staring at him, with their earnest, hopeful optics, and…they knew. They knew exactly what they were asking, these sparklings. Wheeljack’s vocal indicators gave a flicker, and in the wry tilt of his head Optimus could almost hear him say “See, what did I tell you?”   
  
Optimus bowed his helm for a moment, humbled. He had questioned, doubted, tested the justice of their cause, the truth of their path, but never so much as now, faced with that fivefold, clear-eyed trust. He should send them back, these new ones, keep them safe for yet awhile longer, but…as Wheeljack had warned, there was no denying them.  
  
“Very well.” He smiled, with honest, sparkdeep joy as he met their optics once again: Hot Spot and Blades standing so tall and steady behind their brothers; Groove and First Aid somehow both solemn and smiling, their hands intertwined. Streetwise grinning wide, his whole frame a small, exuberant wiggle beneath the gravity of the moment.   
  
“I accept your service.” As if they hadn’t served already, sacrificing so much in their very first moments on Cybertron. Primus, keep me worthy of them, he thought, prayer or plea or both, he wasn’t entirely certain. “Welcome to the Autobots.”


	48. The P-bots have a little too much cope

“He can’t possibly be ok.  _I’m_  not ok,” Ratchet said, taking a break to wearily wash some of the dried energon from his hands and arms. There had been a call for assistance after a small skirmish, a good opportunity, Ratchet had thought, to put his new apprentice through his paces, see what he could do. The small skirmish had turned out to be much more than that, a massive and wide-scale destruction of an entire neutral outpost. The number of casualties had been vastly underestimated; there had simply been no one left alive to report it.   
  
Ratchet had tried to keep tabs on First Aid, steer the less critically injured patients his way, but there had just been too many, coming in too fast.   
  
“Primus, Wheeljack. The first time I lost a patient I went and drank myself into stasis - didn’t come out of my quarters for three orns. First Aid lost twelve today.  _Twelve._ ” And saved more than that. Ratchet knew his apprentice had been improvising, doing procedures he’d not been trained in—Pit, at this stage in his apprenticeship First Aid shouldn’t have been doing much more than changing oil and taking spark pulse readings—but when he checked over Aid’s patients later, he’d found very little that he would have done differently.   
  
“He should be a wreck, especially considering how...ingrained his medbot programming seems to be, but he’s…” Ratchet waved a hand, at a loss.   
  
“I’m sorry,” First Aid’s soft voice came from the door to the small washracks, where he stood uncertainly. Like Ratchet, his arms and chassis were spattered with energon and other drying fluids from the injured. “Should…am I doing something wrong?”  
  
Wheeljack took him by a shoulder and steered him to the other washrack in the small room. “No, you’re not doing anything wrong, kiddo. We’re just worried about you, that’s all. This was a rough cycle for a…well, for anyone.”   
  
Ratchet reached over and turned on the cleansing spray. “Comes off better if you start with cool first.”  
  
First Aid nodded and began to scrub his arms and hands. “Ratchet already checked my electrical system,” he told Wheeljack, looking a little puzzled. “You don’t need to be worried.”   
  
“I know. It’s good to see you healthy again.” Wheeljack smiled at him fondly. The short outs that had complicated First Aid’s recovery from his nearly fatal pulse cannon injury seemed to have fully abated, and despite the exhausting, spark-wrenching cycle, First Aid was holding up well. Physically. As for mentally…  
  
“You saw a lot of mechs deactivate today,” Ratchet said, watching him closely. “How do you feel about that?”   
  
First Aid’s hands slowed under the flow of cleanser. Hot Spot chose that moment to poke his head in through the doorway. “Optimus says we’re off duty and to head back to base immediately, no matter if things haven’t been cleaned up yet. It can wait until the rest of the relief crews get here.” Hot Spot’s expression was slightly perplexed, as if he couldn’t quite figure out why Optimus would want them to leave a job half-finished, but orders were orders. He seemed more energetic than he had any right to be, considering he and the other three Protectobots had been working themselves to the struts locating survivors and transporting them to the triage location, the battered medical center one of the few places still intact.   
  
“I concur,” Ratchet said, while exchanging a significant look with Wheeljack. “We’re all running on fumes.”  _See what I mean?_  he commed on a private channel.  _They’re sparklings! They shouldn’t be…handling this. Like they are._    
  
Wheeljack shrugged, although his optics were worried as well.  _I don’t know what to tell you, Ratch. They’ve always known what they were meant for._  
  
First Aid frowned a little at the thought of leaving the patients behind, even though there were plenty of medics now to look after them. “I don’t know enough yet, to save them all, but I’ll figure out what I did wrong,” he said, answering Ratchet’s earlier question. “I’ll study harder when I get back.”   
  
Ratchet looked alarmed. “No! No, Aid, that’s not what I meant. You did very little wrong, and I doubt anything would have saved those mechs.” First Aid looked at him, optics worried behind his visor. “You did well. All of you. Extraordinarily well. I just want to be sure you’re…”  
  
“That we’re not going to crash our hard drives on you?” Hot Spot finished for him, with a hint of a wry smile though his optics were somber. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, though. Not today anyway.” He looked down at First Aid, still standing in the cleansing spray. Both of their minds still reverberated with the cries of the injured and dying, but whenever the horror threatened to overwhelm, he could feel…something, a deep-flowing stillness that accepted and swallowed the cries and the fear //Aid?// embracing him, pulling them all back to center, keeping them steady and balanced, almost the way Groove and Streetwise balanced them in their form as Defensor-legs, center and center, we will not let us fall.  
  
//It’s almost like he’s…anchoring us, or something// Groove’s thought, from somewhere nearby in the bond, tinged with his own brand of intricate stillness.   
  
//Shielding us// sent Streetwise, his network of thoughts twining with Hot Spot’s for a moment in constant, shifting motion.  
  
//He took the brunt. Again// Blades, not happy about it, pure and simple.  
  
First Aid ducked his head, his thoughts elusive, the way he got sometimes. Inscrutable, even to himself.  
  
//I’m not really….// he started, then trailed off. //It’s just…the worse things get…the deeper I have to go//  
  
//And you were ok, even watching them die// They had all seen terrible things, but First Aid…Hot Spot could feel the echo of it, watching through Aid’s optics as sparks flickered and died, his hands unable to stop it, an anguished wave rising, crashing…down but never stopping, deep and deeper, into a measureless silence. Silence and peace always at their core, no matter what was happening around them. Where did it go? he wondered, watching his medic-brother washing his hands so calmly, feeling a wordless uneasiness. First Aid sighed a little, at his gestalt commander’s worry. What could he do, but be himself?   
  
//Deactivating’s not so bad, you know, once you get over the hurting part// First Aid sent, tilting his hands back and forth a little as the dried energon gradually dissolved. //I was so tired, and everything was so quiet, and I wasn’t afraid. It would have been easy to let go//   
  
Hot Spot felt his spark clench. They had come close, so close to losing him…  
  
“You were calling me though,” First Aid said aloud, and he smiled, his optics at their deepest, warmest blue behind the visor as he looked up at his gestalt commander. “I could hear you calling me, in my spark. You were holding me, and so I stayed.”  
  



	49. First Aid is a little distracted

With all of the pain sensors in his damaged side deactivated and the battle still going full force all around them, it took Sideswipe several moments before he noticed that First Aid had been distracted by something, his tools pausing in their repairs as he gazed across the battlefield. Somewhat concerned, Sideswipe craned his neck to look as well; First Aid’s concentration while doing repairs was normally unshakeable, no matter what chaos surrounded him. All he saw was Sunstreaker, rolling gracefully to his feet, charging across the battlefield to the next knot of fighting, business as usual. First Aid’s visor tracked him as he ran.   
  
“Aid? ”   
  
First Aid straightened and blinked, returning his attention to Sideswipe’s repairs.   
  
“I’m sorry, Sideswipe. I was, um….” First Aid’s voice trailed off, not completing the explanation. There was something about the way First Aid was not meeting his optics that seemed to have nothing to do with keeping track of the steady movements of his welders. “I’ll have you fixed up in about two more breems. Is the sensor block still working?”  
  
“Oh yeah, I’m doing great.” Sideswipe leaned back again, stretching his arms back to rest his hands under his helm, watching the bright streaks of laser fire overhead. Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting, indeed. 


	50. Streetwise has a problem

_Aid?_  Streetwise set his transmission at medium priority, in case First Aid was busy or snatching a rare moment of recharge; He was far enough away it was difficult to be sure with the gestalt bond. It wasn't a true emergency, he supposed, but it was kind of urgent. To his relief his brother responded immediately.  
  
 _Hi, Streetwise. How was your stakeout?_  
  
 _Uneventful, for the most part. Except...._  
  
 _Yes? Except for what, exactly?_  First Aid sounded as if he were wondering how many bullet nicks he'd be buffing out of his brother's armor this time.  
  
 _Well, there was this cat, and it's really cold tonight, and so I opened my door and she climbed right in...and she sort of...had kittens?_    
  
 _Oh dear, sort of had kittens, did she?_  Streetwise could hear the amusement in his brother's transmission.  
  
 _Under my front seat, there're four of five of them, I'm pretty sure. Aid, what do I do?_  he sent a little plaintively.  
  
 _Come on back to base,_  First Aid laughed.  _I'm sure we can coax her out to a more comfortable nursery._


	51. Aid and grieving Aerialbots

A sharp, deep ache and throb from his spark woke First Aid from his light recharge, which was all he seemed to be able to manage anymore. He sighed a little, in the middle of the pile of his recharging older brothers, the rest of the long, wakeful cycle stretching ahead of him. Hopefully he'd gotten enough that Ratchet wouldn't put him in enforced recharge again; the sensation of trapped, groggy confusion it caused was more unpleasant than any amount of weariness.

Silverbolt wasn't quite in full recharge yet, the Aerialbot commander's faceplates drawn in a serious frown, his systems lingering on the verge of standby. Waiting to make sure that the others were all recharging first, no doubt, and that Air Raid wasn't going to sneak off to...wherever it was he'd been going. At least this time Fireflight had fallen into recharge without weeping, and maybe Silverbolt for once wouldn't wake himself up with it. A sign they were healing, though slowly. Slingshot worried First Aid most of all; he'd been entirely too subdued lately, spending his free time looming at patients in the medbay when First Aid was on duty, giving his brothers random hugs for no reason at all, but there was a sense about him like one of Wheeljack's more explosive experiments. Skydive seemed least affected, but First Aid had seen him in the rec room, staring for long breems at a blank-screened datapad.

Silverbolt's frown deepened a bit; First Aid held very still and cycled his ventilations slow and steady, thinking quiet and peace and calm in Silverbolt's direction. The Aerialbot gestalt bond was on a different frequency from...it was not the same, but sometimes First Aid could feel it searching, trying to tune him in. Silverbolt pursed his lips slightly, as if aware of what First Aid was trying to do (and maybe he was), but finally he yielded, faceplates relaxing as he powered down at last. Only then did First Aid allow himself to shift a little, snuggling closer to Fireflight, resting his hands against Silverbolt's too-tense shoulder plating and trying to ease them with some very light magnetic pulses. He wished he dared work his way down to Silverbolt's ankle articulations, which he knew had been giving the tall jet problems, but maybe later.

While he did that he called up Fireflight's system specifications in his processor and began working his way through them, helm to pede, circulation and fuel processing, neural and CPU, engine, wings, weapons, all intertwined and doubly complicated by being not only a jet but also a gestalt component, essentially a triple changer. It made medical treatment a challenge, and First Aid made sure to review all of the Aerialbots' systems until he knew them better than he knew his own, categorized and accessible in his databanks at a nanoklik's notice. And it made the long, wakeful cycles go faster. He smiled as he worked, remembering Fireflight asking Silverbolt if Wheeljack could build wings for First Aid, too. He was never meant for flying, though, and there were things the Aerialbots needed to do, places they were needed where he could not follow. Not quite yet, maybe, but soon. He traced his way through Fireflight's circuits, weaving hope, love, protection along every one, leaving not the tiniest nano-filament overlooked. Be safe, be well, be joyful again, his prayer to Primus and the universe.


	52. An explodey sort of patient

"You can disarm it, right?" Groove said, peering sidewise around Hot Spot's torso as Hot Spot tried to edge protectively in front of him. "Just pretend it's a patient. A very...explodey sort of patient." Streetwise and Blades exchanged rather wild-opticed looks as the bomb unfolded a few more ominous looking components and began clicking softly to itself.  
  
First Aid narrowed his optics for a moment, considering, and then transformed several of his fingers into delicate-seeming probes and medical instruments, stepping carefully around the outer supports so he could reach the center of the device. "Don't worry," he told it in his best reassuring medic-voice, as he carefully, carefully eased open a panel. "You're going to be just fine, and this won't hurt a bit." 


	53. Tutors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In P-bot beginningsverse, the femmes don't show up until later, so Arcee is a "he" here - this is when the P-bots are still on their hidden planet, before they go to Cybertron.

“You really wore them out,” Ironhide said, sounding impressed. “Think you could extend your visit by a few vorns?”

Arcee grinned up at him, his slender frame barely visible in the middle of the pile of recharging Protectobots. Arcee had never struck Ironhide as the cuddly type, but the Protectobots had been enchanted by the graceful warrior with his high, sweet voice and quick wit (not to mention his ability to take down Hot Spot with one hand, which Hot Spot thought great fun and insisted on trying several times). Hot Spot had his helm resting on Arcee’s legs, while Groove had claimed one of his arms. Blades was sprawled against them all, offline to the world after an exhausting day trying to keep up with Springer through the fierce, tricky winds of their little planet.


	54. Sky blue

They crowded around the vid-feed as the first images arrived from Optimus Prime.  Earth, their new home.  

“A water world,” Streetwise murmured, scrolling through the specifications, vital statistics. Lightly frosted at the poles, iron core, floating rocky crust, and every surface, land and water, teeming with organic life. They loved it immediately.  

“Blue,” Groove said, trying to imagine what it would be like, to walk under such a sky.  Their first planet had been a water world, too, but the sky had been gray or sometimes pale yellow, and Cybertron had been dark with stars, or a red-orange haze near the end.  First Aid leaned his helm on Groove’s shoulder, smiling a little sadly as they both gazed at the image, blue and green, brown and swirling white, turning slowly. 

//Oh, Aid…// Groove’s thought was full of sudden dismay. 

//It’s ok// First Aid snuggled a little closer, twining their hands. //I can feel you seeing it, I can still see the green. Blue was a small price to pay for Ironhide’s life// And if First Aid had it his way, Ironhide would never know that the use of his decrystallizer gun to free him, and the short outs that had followed, had left his processor unable to distinguish pure blue wavelengths. His visor compensated when he had need of color detection in his medical work. No harm done, a very small thing really.  

“They have snow!” Streetwise reported, grinning, his blue optics bright.   

A small thing, except when it wasn’t. First Aid pressed his cheekplate against Groove’s for a brief moment, and then leaned forward to poke Streetwise.    

“Show us the humans,” he ordered.


	55. Manners

“Pardon me,” First Aid said politely to the Matrix, waiting a few kliks in case it was going to object to him examining Optimus Prime’s interior workings.


	56. Mother hen

“Don’t forget to refuel,” First Aid said, his visor shimmering slightly as he ran one last medical scan over the yellow scout.  “Try to get sunlight when you can, and tell Ratchet right away if any of your repairs are bothering you.”  The repairs were a vorn old, and as healed as they were going to get except for the vocalizer, which stubbornly refused to cooperate.  Ratchet suspected at least some portion of the issue was processor-based; one didn't endure several joors of interrogation and torture from Megatron without some level of psychological trauma, though Bumblebee had seemed to quickly bounce back to his usual, irrepressible self.    

Case in point, Ratchet thought wryly, as Bumblebee gave First Aid an exuberant hug, lifting the slightly larger medic up a little, optics twinkling.   _Yes, Creator.  Of course, Creator_ , he commed, managing to emit a cheeky sounding buzz-hum from his damaged vocalizer.  Ratchet repressed a snort of amusement; it would only encourage the yellow imp.  With his chronometer maxed out there was no way of knowing Bumblebee's true age, not counting time spent in stasis, but odds were he was old enough to be First Aid's creator several times over.  That didn't stop First Aid from fussing as if he'd built Bumblebee with his own two hands.


End file.
